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THE  SINGER  OF  THE  KOOTENAT 


?L'??i  ,ii'V-=*^.  Mt:^imF^,Mfl^ 


4;^V,,A^' 


IVorks  By 
ROBERT  E.  KXOWLES 

The   Singer  of  the  Kootenay   A 
Tale  of  To-day. 

The  Handicap:    A  Novel  of  Pion- 
eer Days. 

The  Attic  Guest:    A  Story  of  the 
South  and  North. 

The  Web  of  Time:     A  Romance 
of  the  Human  Heart. 

The  Undertow:     A  Tale  of  Both 
Sides  of  the  Sea. 

St.  Cuthbert's :  A  Parish  Romance. 

The    Dawn    at   Shanty   Bay:    A 
Christmas  Story. 


The 


Singer  of  The  Kootenay 


A  TALE  OF  rO-DAT 


<» 


By 

ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 

Author  of  "St.  Cuthbert'sr  "The  Handicap^  etc. 


New     rork  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming     H.     Revel!    Company 

Lonaon  and  Edinburgh 


ii 


255735  " 


Copyright,  191 1,  by 
FLEMING  H.    REVELL  COMPANY 


K 


'/ 


>  '0^J/-^'~ 


^^ 


New    York:      ,58    Fifth    Avenue 
Chicago:   12^  North  WnKish  Ave 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
Paternoster    Square 
Wnces    Street 


London:    21 
Edinburgh: 


100 


Contents 


I.  A  Proper  Emigrant 

II.  An  Exile  Indeed 

III.  The    Reflections    of    a  :  Pullman 

Porter      .... 

IV.  The  Diversions  of  a  Colonist  Car 

V.  "  A  Kind  of  a  Sport  "      . 

VI.  A  Parental  Dialogue 

VII.  Bridge  and  Revival 

VIII.  "  Can't  Shoot  Without  a  Rest  " 

IX.  A  Park  Amidst  the  Rockies     . 

X.  The  Way  of  a  Soul 

XI.  A  Friendly  Feud 

XII.  The  Knight  in  the  Attic 

XIII.  The  Trophy  a  Teamster  Won 

XIV.  The  Awakening  of  Hilda  Ludlow 

XV.  The  Singer's  Installation 

XVI.  The  Kindling  of  the  Light    . 

XVII.  Soothing  the  Savage  Breast  . 

XVIII.  Love's  Messenger     .         .         .         . 

XIX.  The  Roarin'  Game — How  Murray 

Ran  the  Port 

"  •  •  • 

XX.  The  Encore  that  Murray  Won 

7 


9 

20 

31 

41 
61 

77 
92 

104 

124 

140 

150 

168 

186 

201 

211 

232 

240 

260 

276 
299 


CONTENTS 


XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 


(( 


Not  a  Call— But  a  'Oller  " 
When  the  Heart  Takes  Fire 
How  Hilda  Faced  the  Storm 
A  Message  From  the  Dead 
What  the  New  Moon  Brought 
A  Second  Spring 


302 
315 

329 
337 
345 
359 


The 

Singer  of  The  Kootenay 

I 

A  PROPER  EMIGRANT 

YES,  on  the  whole,  the  congregation  seemed 
fairly  resigned  to  the  intelligence  that  had 
just  been  conveyed  from  the  lips  of  the 
Reverend  Armitage  Seymour,  doctor  of  Divinity 
Minister  of  St.  Enoch's  Church.  Wardsville.  and  one- 
time Lecturer  on  Ecclesiastical  Pohty  in  a  Theo- 
logical Hall  in  Scotland. 

It  required  but  a  glance  at  the  face  and  form  in 
the  pulpit  this  bright  autumn  morning  to  inform  any 
observant  soul    that   the   Reverend  Armitage   was 
meant,  and  was  fashioned  in  eternity,  to  be  a  lec- 
turer.    The  eyes  were  admonitory,  the  nose  inquisi- 
tive,  the  lips  imperative,  the  neck  a  litUe  long  and 
enterprising;  and  the  whole  thin  frame  of  the  man, 
at  the  close  of  every  appeal  or  intimation,  had  the 
easy  gift  of  resolving  itself  into  a  kind  of  animated 
interrogation  point,  one  shoulder  uplifted  and  perti- 
nent, one  knee  Srward  thrust  even  though  the  pulpit 

9 


h^mi 


»,?» 


lo    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

hid  it,  one  hand  obliquely  extended  with  outstretched 
palm,  while  the  intellectual  head  abutted  slightly 
from  the  shoulder,  its  attitude  and  expression  uniting 
to  provide  that  human  corkscrew  effect  that  must, 
inwardly  or  outwardly,  belong  to  every  lecturer  who 
has  not  been  made  but  born. 

Although,  as  has  been  said,  this  autumn  morning 
was  bright  and  inviting,  the  spacious  St.  Enoch's  was 
nevertheless  but  scanfly  filled.    The  congregation, 
hke  that  other  material  known  to  wicked  and  drouthy 
men,  had  crumbled  under  repeated  operations  of  the 
corkscrew ;  so  that  fully  one-half  of  them  were  de- 
nied the  pain  of  the  tidings  borne  to  them  this  morn- 
ing by  the  man  now  looking  down  from  the  pulpit 
upon  the  faithful  few.     To  ensure  perfect  accuracy  in 
a  matter  so  important,  let  those  tidings  be  repeated  in 
the  very  words  of  the  Reverend  Armitage  himself. 

"  I  have  to  inform  you,  my  beloved  friends."  he 
began,  holding  forth  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  glasses 
and  glancing  towards  all  parts  of  the  church  at  once. 
"  that  I  am  about  to  leave  you  for  some  weeks- 
even  months. 

"As  you  are  doubtless  aware,  our  General  As- 
sembly  has  recently  inaugurated  a  special  depart- 
ment of  evangelistic  work,  whose  principal  field  of 
operation  is  in  the  remote  and  needy  West,  hard  by 
the  foundations  of  emp.  r 


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A   PROPER   EMIGR/INT  „ 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  directly  chosen  for  this 
work  by  the  Committee,  for  I  was  not.    But  the  fol- 
lowmg  circumstances  opened  up  the  way.    One  of 
the  men  who  was  to  go-there  are  several  to  be  so 
employed,  at  far  separate  points-was  Dr  Rattray 
minister  at  Hillburn.    But  his  wife,  unhappily,  has' 
been  seized  with  serious  illness  and  has  been  ordered 
a  long  sea  voyage  as  soon  as  she  shall  be  able  to 
travel.     Her  husband,  being  under  necessity  to  ac- 
company  her.  was  compelled  to  make  a  speedy 
choice  of  a  substitute  ;  and.  although  not  personally 
acquainted,  he  has  been  kind  enough  to  say  that  he 
considers  me  qualified  to  take  his  place,  has  asked 
rne  to  do  so.  and  I  have  consented.     The  Committee 
also  has  given  its  assent,  entrusting  Dr.  Rattray  with 
the  choice.     It  was  due  largely.  I  doubt  not.  to  the 
prommence    of   my   congregation."   the    Reverend 
Armitage    added     modestly;    "wherefore    I    start 
almost  immediately  for  British  Columbia,  a  distance 
of  something  like  tv-    thousand  miles." 

Here  he  paused,  extracted  his  handkerchief  from 
the  pocket  of  his  cassock,  and  wiped  his  brow  as 
might  a  jaded  pilgrim  ,vho  had  just  surmounted  those 
weary  leagues  so  recently  enumerated.  "  It  is  to  the 
Kootenay  we  are  to  go."  he  continued,  that  peculiar 
rehsh  lingering  about  the  magic  name,  such  as  all 
old-countrymen  indulge  when  they  think  or  speak 


12    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTBNAY 
the   Elysian   western  word.  "  and   our  design  is  to 
assist  and  encourage  the  missionaries  there,  our  hum- 
bler brethren  who  hold  the  fort  in  those  wild  and 
savage  regions,"  this  last  coming  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  was  ready  to  be  offered  and  who  already  saw  his 
thought-worn  scalp  dangling  from  an  Indian's  girdle, 
or  in  front  of  a  miner  s  hut.  or  from  the  door  of  a 
lumber  shanty  amid  mighty  pines  that  softly  sang  the 
requiem  of  the  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour,  one- 
time Lecturer  in  a  Scottish  Hall. 

••  We  are  to  go  forth  two  and  two,"  continued  the 
preacher,  the  peril  of  massacre  for  the  moment  past. 
"as  the  Apostles  of  old;   but  in  our  case  a  little' 
different-we  go  two  and  two.  one  ordained,  the 
other  unordained.  •     This  last  was  announced  after  a 
fashion  that  went  far  to  interpret  the  Minister  of 
St.    Enoch's;    it    fairly    breathed   of    Ecclesiastical 
Polity;  the  above  classification,  to  him.  was  as  of 
the  quick  and  the  dead.     "  In  this  case  the  ordained 
man  is  to  do  the  preaching— and  the  unordained 
man  is  to  assist  with  the  gift  of  song;  he  is  to  stir 
up  the  hearts  of  our  hearers  by  the  melodies  of  Zion." 
elaborated  the  Reverend  Armitage.  doing  the  best 
he  could  for  the  unordained  appendage  who  was  to 
accompany  him-"  that  is  to  say,  he  is  a  singer,  and, 
as  such,  has  his  place."     At  this  juncture  the  organist 
and  the  leading  tenor  both  of  whom  were  behind  the 


A    PROPER   EMIGRANT  13 

worthy  Doctor  (and  carefully  so  retained)  exchanged 
glances,  even  grimaces,  that  proved  both  of  them  to 
be  unordained,  and  doomed  so  forever  to  remain  un- 
less all  Ecclesiastical  Polity  should  vanish  from  the 
earth. 

"  It  is  the  hope  of  the  General  Assembly,"  the 
Doctor  continued  amiably,  <'  that  by  these  means  our 
Western   brethren  will   be  cheered  and  stimulated, 
and  our  Church  established  in  greater  dignity  and 
strength   before   the  eyes  of  the  enemies  of  Zion 
in  those  far  distant  regions.     It  is  the  hope  of  the 
Assembly  that  greater  prestige  will  thus  be  added  to 
the  Church's  whole  enterprise  in  that  great  Western 
World— and  that  our  people  there  will  be  built  up  in 
their  most  holy  faith.     Oh.  yes."  he  made  haste  to 
add,  "  and  that  souls  may  be  converted—by  such  of 
the  outgoing  band  whose  gift  is  for  that  really  im- 
portant phase  of  Christian  work,  for  every  different 
faculty  has  been  considered  in  this  great  undertaking 
of  the  Church.     And  I  hope  that  during  my  absence 
you  will  be  faithful  in  your  attendance  on  the  public 
services  of  the  House  of  God.    I  have  secured  as  good 
stipply  for  my  pulpit  as  I  could."  he  added,  though 
his  expression  showed  how  near  to  despair  he  had 
been  driven  in  his  attempt  to  adequately  stop  the 
gap.     "  The   collection  will  now  be  taken  up."  he 
concluded,  turning  with   silken   rustle  towards'  the 


M    The  SINGER  of  The  KOO  TEN  A  Y 

spadous  chair  behind  him.  the  organist  .ueantimc 
falling  to  upon  the  keys  in  a  fashion  that  indicated 
h.s  conviction  that  St.  Enoch's  had  nothing  to  fear 
so  long  as  he  too  did  aot  depart  for  the  Western 
wilds  that  awaited  his  outgoing  chief. 

Such  were  the  tidings  which  fell  upon  the  ean>  of 
the  s.lcnt  congregation ;  and  which,  as  has  been 
hinted,  they  appeared  to  bear  with  Christian  fortitude 
and  calm. 

Mrs.  Seymour,  wife  of  the  Reverend  Armitage.  was 
not  at  church  that  day  ;  wherefore  she  looked  to  her 
liege-lord  for  some  report  of  the  services  as  he  took 
his  seat  opposite  her  at  the  dinner  table. 

"  And  so  you  told  them  you  were  going,  did  you 
Armitage  ?  "  she  asked  as  soc  as  grace  had  been 
said. 

"  Ves,"  he  answered  with  a  sigh ;  "  I  broke  it  to 
them  as  gently  as  I  could." 

"  Did  you  tell  them  who  was  to  take  your  pulpit 
in  your  absence  ?"  she  enquired  further,  taking  the 
cover  from  the  potatoes  as  she  spoke. 

"  No."  and  the  Doctor  passed  his  plate  as  he  an- 
swered .:  "  no,  I  thought  they'd  find  out  soon  enough. 
I  know  they  hope  it  will  be  Rankin,  that  evangelis- 
tic fellow  who  supplied  those  four  Sundays  I  ^vas  laid 
off  with  the  gout.  And  I  know  they  don't  care  for 
Murchiston.  the  man  I  have  engaged  to  come-he's 


A    PROPER   EMIGRANT 


>5 


I 


too  scholarly  for  them.  Of  course,  I  know  he's  no 
great  preacher— but  he's  a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman. 
Why,  his  mother  was  one  of  '.he  Gordons  of  i  ulloch, 
and  he's  first  cousin  to  an  earl!"  with  which  the 
Reverend  Armitage  helped  himself  to  the  rich  brown 
gravy,  his  face  aglow  with  reverence  the  while. 
"  An  J  he's  a  graduate  of  Oxford— and  his  articles  on 
the  Pentateuch  arc  recognized  as  authorities  on  the 
subject  everywhere/'  looking  across  the  t".blc  at  his 
wife  in  a  way  that  si;oke  volumes  for  the  absent 
Murchiston. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  service  this  morning,  Arm- 
itage?" his  wife  ask^d  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  yes,  fairly, '  he  answered ;  "  only  the  choir 
forgot  the  Gloria— after  the  prayer,  you  know. 
That  spoiled  things  a  good  deal.  And  I  can't  get 
them  to  give  the  threefold  Amen  after  the  Benedic- 
tion—it seems  some  of  the  Session  object,  and  Jen- 
kins, the  leader,  is  afraid  of  his  life  of  them.  It's  dis- 
couraging, so  it  is,"  he  went  on ;  "  I  had  hoped  to  have 
those  features  nicely  introduced  before  I  went  away. 
But  there's  always  something  to  try  one  in  the  work 
of  the  ministry,"  he  added  resignedly. 

"  When  do  you  start  for  the  West,  Armitage  ? " 
his  wife  suddenly  enquired,  giving  the  conversation  a 
new  departure. 
"  Oa  Tuesday,  I  believe.     And  my  assistant  is 


•6    The  SINGER  of  7hc  K007ENAY 
Join  me  somewhere  west  of  Winnipeg  -at  a  place 
called  Indian  Head.  I  believe,     i les L!n  helping  „ 
some  similar  services  there." 

"What    assistant?"    queried    Mrs.  Seymour •  her 

ever?'  """«"■■■ '"P""""'  «•.«■!„.•»,„;  ..fUcen,. 

hop.  heil  prove  congenial  ,o  many  of  thcm  are 
Cow,  o,  „o  cu,.u„.  mere  emotiona'  ran Ir  O 
course  one  couldn-,  g.,  o„  wi,„„„,  .^em ,  I  d^n  , 
thmlc  I  „ou,d  try  i,  a,  all  wi.hou,  such  a  man  ,o  hel 
""'-"  ""^  "«  "he.,,.  But  he„  have  ,o  confirm  o 
2  '"^,  «.a.'s  one  thing  sure,"  he  ,ven.  on,  :™  g 

en',  hi  T'l'  '""  "''  '"'"  ""P"'"-    "There 
can  .  be  t.n  admirals  in  one  ship.     You'll  have  my 

Qcar  f      he  added.     "  Re  c„r-  f^  „  ..  • 

fl         ,  "        .ne  sure  to  put  in  my  warmest 

co:,"  r  ""  "'"^  -""--and  my'fur-C 
coar,  he  wen.  on,  shivering  a  little  as  he  spoke- 
• .  .cy  say  that  Western  chma.e  is  something  terrible 
ho  hTT'  """■  "■'■  >"=■  "'  ^"''^  -  an  arte^ 
sock-and   the  bands.     Td  be  utterly  lost  .vi..>out 

yo"!\T"  ""f  '  """•     "  '""'^  ^™  — •'  "-« 
your  gown,  and  all  those  things,  out  there,  Armi- 


^    PROPER  EMIGRANT 


»7 


tage  ?    You're  going  to  preach  to  miners,  and  shanty- 
men,  and  everything  like  that,  1  thmk  you  said  ?  " 

Her  husband  waved  his  hand  slightly  as  le  rose 
from  his  chair.  "  My  dear,  a  m  nister  is  a  minister, 
wherever  he  goes -and  preaching  is  preaching,  no 
matter  who  may  compose  the  congregation.  I  pro- 
pose, my  dear,  to  magnify  my  office— and  to  main- 
tain the  dignity  of  the  Church  that  gave  me  my 
orders,  wherever  I  go,"  and  Dr.  Seymour  closed  his 
lips  with  a  firmness  that  indicated  the  last  word  had 
been  said  on  that  particular  theme. 

The  other  sighed,  making  no  answer.  By  this 
time  her  husband  had  begun  to  ascend  the  stairs. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  Sunday-school  this  after- 
noon, dear  ?  "  his  wife  asked  from  below.  «•  It's  your 
last  day,  you  know." 

"  No,"  he  rephcd  wearily  ;  "I'm  tired  out  and 
must  have  some  rest.  I'm  going  to  lie  down— I 
have  arduous  labours  before  me,  you  know.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?— I  think  you'd  be  better  to 
rest  as  well." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  resting,"  she  answered  softly 
her  face  averted.  He  felt,  but  could  not  see,  that  the 
tender  eyes  were  moist  with  tears.  ••  I'm  going  to 
write." 

"  Write !  What  about  ?  "  he  asked,  pausing  c  . 
the  stair.    Yet  he  felt  sure  he  knew. 


i8    'The  SINGER  of  -The  KOOTENAY 

The  answer  was  long  in  coming.    -  Ifs  a  letter  to 
Spokane."  she  replied  huskily  at  last.     "  1  heard  last 
night-only  incidentally,  and  we've  been  disappointed 
so  often ;  but  a  lady  told  me  that  a  friend  of  hers  saw 
h.s  name-our  Leonard's  name-in  a  Western  paper 
there.     At  least,  he  thought  he  d.d^though  he  paid 
no  particular  attention-recalled  it  when  he  happened 
to  hear  ,t  mentioned  after  he  came  home.     So  Im 
gomg  to  try  once  more."  she  added  hoarsely,  a  wealth 
of  longmg  and  loneliness  in  the  voice. 

"  What  was  it  about_in  the  paper  ?  "  he  asked 
still  standing,  his  face  paler  than  before. 

A  long  silence  again.  "  It  wasn't  very  good  "  she 
faltered  at  length,  for  he  still  waited.  "  Something 
about  some  kind  of  trouble-some  Jail  afTair."  her 
voice  broken  and  almost  inaudible. 

No  word  came  from  the  figure  on  the  stair.  On 
he  strode,  upward.  "  Let  us  try  to  forget.  Eleanor  " 
he  said  falteringly  as  he  turned  on  the  landing 
"  And  please  call  me  at  five  if  I'm  not  awake_I  wish 
to  look  over  my  notes  for  the  evening's  service" 
with  which  he  went  on  to  his  spacious  chamber,  closed 
the  door,  leaving  silence  and  sorrow  behind. 

The  ,voman  t  ,rned  and  made  her  way.  grop.ng 
her  sight  lost  in  tears,  into  a  little  room  with  a  tiny 
desk  ,n  the  corner.  Taking  a  key  from  her  pocket 
she    fumbled    blindly   for  a   minute    with   the   lock 


A    PROPER    EMIGRANT  19 

Opening  the  desk  she  drew  forth  a  little  picture, 
beautifully  set  in  a  golden  frame ;  then,  through  all 
the  mist  and  darkness,  her  eyes  leaped  passionately  to 
the  face  within—the  sweet  and  fascinating  face  of  a  lad 
in  his  middle  teens.  She  went  back  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  then  returned  to  tlie  desk,  knelt 
beside  it,  the  picture  clasped  convulsively  to  her  heart. 
••  I  won't !  "  she  cried  through  bitter  tears  ;  "  I  won't 
forget  God  doesn't—and  while  He  won't,  I  won't. 
What  are  they  doing  to  you  to-day,  my  child  ?  "  she 
sobbed  through  a  storm  of  tears.  "Oh,  Leonard! 
Oh,   Leonard,  my  son,  my  son !  " 


ri 


II 

/IN  EXILE  INDEED 

THE  world  has  heard  much  concerning  the 
sadness  of  farewell.     But  there  is  one  form 
of  sadness  deeper  still ;  it  is  the  hollow  pain 
of  a  parting  that  is  untouched  with  sorrow.     How 
many  a  once  devoted  wife,  life's  bloom  of  love  long 
dead,  must  sit  with  folded  hands  after  the  door  has 
closed  upon  the  outgoing  husband  who  was  once  the 
lover  of  her  youth,  remembering  with  anguish  how 
different  far  were  the  farewells  of  other  days  before 
love's  lamp  had  burned  low  and  pale,  then  flickered  in 
dying  hope,  then  gone  out  in  blackness  ! 

So,  alas  !  was  it  with  the  wife  of  the  cultured  and 
distinguished  minister  of  St.  Enoch's  when,  a  few 
days  later,  he  took  his  departure  on  his  distant  mis- 
sion. She  could  hear  the  rumble  r  the  wheels,  hearse 
like,  as  they  bore  him  forth-and  the  lack  of  anguish 
.n  her  breast  filled  that  breast  with  the  deepest  anguish 
a  woman's  heart  can  know. 

But  if  womanhood  is  thus  equipped  for  sorrow,  it 
has  Its  holy  compensations.  Though  the  well  of 
married  bliss  may,  and  often  does,  become  choked 
and  dry.  the  all-compensating  Hand  has  opened  in 


20 


y4n    EXILE   INDEED  ai 

the  woman-heart  another  spring  of  joy,  less  passionate 
and  maddening  perhaps,  less  intoxicating  in  its  bliss, 
but  whose  calmer  waters  are  fed  from  all  Eternity. 
Such  a  fountain,  flowing  with  unfaltering  stream,  is 
the  unchanging  tid*;  of  a  mother's  love.  Unlike  the 
other,  time  does  not  diminish,  nor  silence  quench,  nor 
neglect  temper  th;,  ardour  of  its  passion.  The  wife- 
love  r-  'st  be  fed  of  human  hands;  the  mother-love 
God  ..imself  guards  and  replenishes.  Wherefore, 
granted  a  Mother  and  a  Son,  and  you  have  a  hving 
spring  of  love  and  happiness,  defiant  of  all  desola- 
tion, feeding  the  roots  of  life  with  Rr.mance  and  Pas- 
sion, though  all  life's  upper  branches  be  touched  with 
barrenness  and  death. 

On  the  very  day,  almost  at  the  very  hour,  in  which 
the  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour  parted  from  his  wife 
and  betook  himself  towards  Western  wilds,  another 
scene  of  parting  might  have  been  witnessed  in  a  far 
humbler  home.  Which  home  was  situated  in  a  little 
Canadian  village,  not  so  far  removed  from  the  scene 
of  the  d'^rical  life  and  labours  already  referred  to. 

Two  inmates  occupied  this  latter  home,  and  two 
alone  -and  both  were  bended  above  a  rusty  trunk, 
now  waiting  to  be  closed  and  locked.  These  two 
were  mother  and  son.  The  former  was  a  woman  of 
between  fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age,  her  hair  already 
whitened  with  the  copious  gray  that  had  gathered  so 


I  -.  ^<A'  %.im 


22    The  SINGER  of  The  KQOTENA  Y 
quickly  in  Lhe  last  few  years  of  widowhood.     Perhaps 
the  sorrow  that  evidently  was  fresh  upon  her  heart 
had  gone  far  to  deepen  these  signs  of  age.     The  pure 
face,  crowned  with  the  dignity  which  sorrow  gives 
beyond  recall,  sweet  in  its  gentleness,  strong  in  the 
patience  and  resignation  that  rested  on  it,  was  turned 
upon  her  son  ivith  a  wealth  of  yearning,  of  loneliness 
too.  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  who  it  was  for  whom  the 
shabby  trunk  was  thus  prepared  with  its  scant  posses- 
sions. 

The  stalwart  youth  had  his  mother's   face;    the 
same  brown  eyes ;  the  same  wavy  hair,  nut  brown  and 
ruddy  all ;  the  same  oval  cast  of  countenance,  mobile 
hps.  chin  of  not  too  resolute  a  type-the  same  general 
look  of  tenderness,  of  amiable  and  kindly  nature,  of 
purity  too.  though   untested   like  the   other's,   and 
unenriched.  like  hers,  by   some   Power   from  afar. 
Even  as  he  looked  up  at  her  now.  the  real  business  of 
the  hour  done,  his  eyes  had  a  sort  of  laughing  hope- 
fulness that  contrasted  strangely  with  the  brooding 
seriousness,  almost  fear,  that  shadowed  the  mother's 
face.     They  were   obviously  thinking  of  the   same 
thing,  speaking  of  it.  indeed-but  no  sense  of  tragedy, 
no  dark  misgiving,  mingled  with  his  outlook  on  the' 
pathless  way  to  which  his  feet  were  now  waiting  to 
be  turned. 

The  story  xvas  a  sad  one.  even  bitter  in  its  pathos. 


y4n    EXILE   INDEED 


2} 


Struggling  against  poverty,  her  widowed  heart  had 
yet  devised  great  things  for  her  only  son.  By  dint 
of  toil  and  sacrifice  such  as  he  could  never  know,  she 
had  contrived  to  send  him  to  college.  Two  or  three 
years  had  passed  peacefully,  hopefully-  so  far  as  his 
mother  knew,  at  least.     Then  came  the  tragedy. 

Among  all  the  students  at  old  Queen's,  there  had 
been  no  greater  favourite  than  Murray  McLean.  A 
manly  name,  a  handsome  face,  a  nature  warm  and 
ingenuous,  had  all  combined  to  win  the  liking  of  his 
college  mates.  There  was  yet  anotlier  factor  which 
added  to  his  charm ;  from  childhood  he  had  possessed 
a  voice  of  rare  sweetness  and  beauty.  The  great  gift 
of  song  was  his.  Even  when  the  merest  lad,  his  ear 
had  had  that  quick  sensitiveness  to  rhythm,  his  voice 
that  commanding  and  magnetic  quality,  which  be- 
speak the  true  singer.  His  mother,  not  slow  to  note 
and  to  prize  the  gift,  had  sedulously  trained  and  de- 
veloped it ;  till,  with  opening  manhood,  there  were 
but  few  anywhere  of  his  age  with  voice  of  finer  '•-'>nge 
or  sweeter  quality. 

But  this  golden  gift — so  painful  to  relate  but  so 
often  to  be  told — had  brought  this  first  dark  cloud 
about  his  youthful  head.  It  came  about  after  this 
wise.  Among  the  college  professors  there  was  one 
singularly  obnoxious  to  t'       *"udents — perhaps  justly 


so  -  who   had   been    for 


5   the  tare   f  for   their 


24    The  S/NGER  0/  The  KOOTENylY 
banter  and  derision.     Yet  it  had  never  gone  quite 
so  far  as  on  that  particular  night  that  proved  so  dis- 
astrous to  this  widow's  son.     Some  pubUc  function  or 
other  was  under  way  in  the  Convocation  Hall,  in  which 
function  this  unpalatable  professor  duly  arose  to  take 
some  part.     Whereupon,  all  having  been  previously 
arranged,  there  suddenly  Hoated  out  a  rich  full  voice 
from  the  students'  galle.-y— and  every  other  sound 
was  husheJ     The  voice  was  Murray  McLean's ;  and 
the  verse  it  sang  was  one  of  biting  doggerel,  gathered 
about  this  professor's  name.     It  had  been  arranged 
that  the  song  was  to  be  general ;  but,  whether  from 
ignorance  of  the  words,  or  timidity,  or  surrender  to 
the  master  voice,  that  voice  was  allowed  to  sing  the 
verse  alone. 

Wherefore  the  stroke  fell  on  its  unhappy  owner - 
and  Murray  McLean  was  forthwith  sternly  dismissed 
from  the  classic  halls.     Homeward  he  turned  his  way, 
having  no  otherwhere  to  go.     But  if,  on    the  long 
journey,  he  tried  his  best  to  consider  the  whole  thing 
a  joke,  even  recounting  it  gaily  to  one  or  two  of  his 
fellow  travellers,  the  bitterness  and  the  tragedy  of  it 
all  were  abundantly  clear  to  him  before  he  had  fal- 
tered out  the  sickening  story  to  the  broken-hearted 
woman  at  whose  knees  he  was  bending  before  the 
tale  was  done.     There  is  no  voice  that  can  call  forth 
the  hidden  forces  of  the  heart  of  youth  like  the  low 


/In    EXILE   INDEED 


25 


wail  of  an  anguished  mother— and  she  had  worked  so 
hard,  and  saved  so  pitifully,  and  prayed  so  earnestly, 
and  hoped  so  proudly  ! 

So  now  Murray  was  going  forth.  Two  or  three 
weeks  had  passed,  intolerable  to  him  because  of  the 
still  deeper  tenderness  and  still  gentler  love  with 
which  his  mother  had  borne  herself  to  him— and  the 
great  resolve  had  gathered  in  his  heart  that,  cost 
what  It  might,  he  would  go  away.  Not  only  away, 
but  far  away !  where  he  could  start  afresh  in  the  vast 
regions  of  the  opening  West,  and  begin  over  again, 
unknown  and  unbranded,  the  life  that  heretofore  had 
been  so  fruitless  and  so  frivolous. 

"  But  v/hat  will  you  do,  my  son,  when  you  get  out 
there?"  the  mother's  voice  was  asking,  her  words 
choked  and  trembling  as  they  came.  «'  You'll  be  all 
alone — and  we  have  no  money." 

The  youth  straightened  himself  beside  the  slender 
form.  Coming  closer  to  b'-  he  rested  his  hands 
upon  her  shoulders  and  looked  down  into  the  wistful 
face.  Her  own  hands  moved  upward  till  they  took 
the  ruddy  checks  between  them,  her  eyes  seeming  to 
search  his  very  soul. 

"  Mother,"  he  began,  his  voice  low  and  tense, 
every  word  touched  with  passion  and  purpose ;  "  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  mother— or  how 
I'm  going  to  get  on.     But  I  do  know  this-  that  I'll 


36    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTEN/iY 
do  the  first  thing,  the  first  honest  thing,  my  hands 
get  a  chance  to  work  at.     I  know  I've  been  weak  and 
silly,  mother,  and  I  got  in  with  a  worthless  bunch 
and  I've  played  the  fool-yes,  in  lots  of  ways   be' 
sides  that  last  crazy  scrape  that  I  got  expelled  for. 
I've  got  many  enemies  to  fight,  mother-and  they're 
mostly  here."  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  breast. 
"  I  haven't  done  anything  so  bad.  dear-nothing  low 
or  base-but  I'll  own  up  that  I've  been  wild,  and 
reckless,  and  selfish.     But  I'm  going  to  play  the  man. 
mother-and  I'm  going  to  do  something  to  pay  you 
back—and  I'm  going  to  make  you  proud  of  me  yet, 
mother,  you  wait  and  see  if  I  don't.     That  country's' 
b.g-away  out  there  among  the  mountains-and  my 
arms  are  strong ;  and  I'll  get  along,  don't  you  ever 
fear  about  me." 

The  yearning  eyes  that  looked  up  into  his  were  a 
mist  of  tears.  Twice  she  tried  to  speak  before  the 
words  would  come.  •<  I  know  you  will,  my  bonnie." 
she  faltered  at  last,  "  and  there's  just  one  thing  I  want 
you  always  to  remember  ;  there'll  be  no  morning, 
Murray,  and  no  evening— and  no  hour-that  your 
mother  won't  be  thinking  of  you-and  loving  you  - 
and  trusting  you.     And  praying  for  you.  Murray! 

Ves,  my  son,  and  waiting  for  you Oh    my 

boy,  my  darling  ! "  she  suddenly  broke  forth  in  passion 
drawmg  him  down  upon  her  bosom.  "  please  don't 


ytn  EXILE   INDEED 


37 


be  long — come  home  soon,  and  let  us  be  happy  again. 
And  Murray,  Murray,"  as  she  released  him  once 
again  and  poured  her  soul  into  his  eyes,  "  promise  me 
you'll  keep  your  heart  pure  and  good,  for  me,  un- 
stained, my  darling,  for  your  mother,  from  all  the 
temptations  that  I  know  will  beset  you  there.  Prom- 
ise me,  won't  you  promise  me,  my  son  ?  " 

She  stopped,  her  breath  coming  fitfully,  and  gazed 
into  his  face.  That  face  was  flushed,  and  perplexity 
seemed  to  rest  on  it.  "I'll  try  to  play  the  man, 
mother,"  he  answered  firmly,  looking  in  turn  to  see 
if  she  were  satisfied. 

"  But  I  want  more,  Murray,"  she  retorted.  "  I 
want  you  to  be  -to  be— religious  ;  to  be  like  your 
father  was,  you  know.  To  be  out  and  out,  my  son 
—to  be  a  Christian,  a  real  Christian,  Murray  !  " 

He  hesitated  again.  "  Isn't  playing  the  man  Chris- 
tian enough?"  he  returned— "  if  a  fellow  does  the 
square  thing,  the  straight  thing,  and  leads  a  good 
clean  life,  isn't  that  Christian  enough,  mother?" 

She  sighed  and  sank  back  in  her  chair.  "  I'm  so 
frightened  about  you,  Murray,"  she  resumed  in  a 
moment.  "  You  know,  my  son— or  if  you  don't  I'll 
tell  you  -you  have  a  peculiar  temptation  because  of, 
because  of  the  gift  you've  got,"  she  went  on  impul- 
sively. "It's  your  voice.  Murray,  that  wonderful 
voice  of  yours— you  must  know,  I  suppose  you  do 


'k'm 


28    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTESAY 
know  it,  that  God  has  given  you  a  great  gift  in  that. 
But  oh,  my  boy,  how  many  have  been  ruined  by  it. 
instead  of  blessed !     It  brings  you  so  much  into  com- 
pany-and  it  makes  you  popular-and  it's  so  easy  to 
spo.l  everything,"  she  faltered,  scarce  knowing  what  to 
say.    "  So  I  want  you  to  promise  me.  Murray,  I  want 
you  to  tell  mc  now.  that  you'll  never,  never,  let  it  de- 
base or  lower  you-or  lead  you  into  company  that  isn't 
good.     And  I  want  more  than  that.      I  want  your 
promise,  dear,  that  if  you  ever  get  a  chance,  no  n.attcr 
how  ,t  comes,  you'll  use  your  voice  lor  good,  for 
helping  somebody-for  the  glory  of  God."  she  added 
reverently,  a  faint  blush  stealing  to  her  cheek,  for 
such  language  was  unfamiliar  between  them. 
He  stood,  smiling  down  at  her. 
"  That's  putting  it  pretty  strong  for  me.  mother," 
he  said  shyly ;  '>  that's  quite  a  programme  for  a  fellow 
that's  just  been  fired  out  of  college.     But  I'll  promise 
you  the  first  part."  he  went  on  reflectively ;  -  of  couire 
J    don't  admit   I've  got   such   a   whale   of  a  voice 
as  you  seem  to  think.     But.  such  as  it  is.  I'll  promise 
the   first   part.     I'll   promise   the   whole   thing,"  he 
suddenly  broke  out;  "for  I  don't  believe  it's  so 'very 
religious  after  all.     Yes,  I'll  promise  the  uhole  busi- 
ness—if I  get  a  chance  to  do  any  good  with  it,  I'll 
get  in  the  game.   Come  now.  mother."  his  arm  stealing 
about  her  as  he  spoke,  "  I  guess  I'll  have  to  be  going 


/4«    EXILE   INDEED  29 

—  I  haven't  any  more  than  time,  I'm  afraid,"  with 
which  he  took  hold  of  the  Ud  of  the  trunk  and  pro- 
ceeded to  press  it  down. 

Siic  y  Mpcd  him  close  down  the  cover  and  lock  the 
old-fashioned  chest.  Just  as  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock  the  carter  could  be  heard  coming  up  the  path. 
A  moment  later,  the  old  trunk  upon  his  shoulders,  he 
had  begun  to  retrace  his  steps  towards  his  wagon. 

Then  came  the  last  farewell.  Even  as  she  held  him 
passionately  in  her  arms  the  eyes  of  the  departing 
youth  roved  fondly  about  the  familiar  scene.  The 
flower  pots  blooming  in  the  window ;  the  kettle  sing- 
ing on  the  stove ;  the  ancestral  Bible  still  open  on  the 
table,  his  mother's  glasses  resting  on  the  page ;  the 
great  clock,  stoic-like,  grimly  ticking  -n  the  hall  with- 
out ;  the  homely  fare,  almost  untasted,  still  standing 
on  ihi  table—all  these  burned  themselves  into  his 
memory  as  he  took  that  long  last  loving  look. 

His  mother's  tears  were  falling  fast.  "  Hark ! " 
she  murmured,  "  the  wind  is  rising  ;  the  night  is  cold, 
my  son.  Oh,  God,  keep  him,  and  protect  him.  and 
open  up  the  way  for  him,"  she  pleaded,  as  if  alone. 
"  Here,  my  darling."  her  tone  changing  as  she  spoke  ; 
"  take  this— no,  it  isn't  much,  it's  only  a  dollar,"  her 
voice  breaking  piteously  as  she  overbore  his  protest 
and  pressed  the  poor  endowment,  "  but  it  was  all  I 
could  save— and  maybe  it  will  help.     Oh,  dear  Lord, 


50    The  SINGER  of  The  KOQTENAY 
find  the  path  for  him.  he's  all  I've  got-and  bring 
Imn  back,  to  mc.  to  mc.     Go.  my  son     wait,  let  your 
mother  button  your  coat  once  mure;  t.ght.  t.ght  and 
warm    for  the  wind  .s  r.«mg  and  the  night  is  cold 
Good- bye ! " 

She  turned,  aln.ost  abruptly,  and  he  went  out  into 
tlic  Kloom.  the  poor  piteous  dollar  still  held  tightly 
in  his  hand,  like  a  sacred  thing. 

The  night  had  darkened  fast ;  but  suddenly,  as 
from  afar,  a  silvery  gleam  of  light  rtowcd  clear  upon 
h.s  path  as  he  p.cked  his  steps  outward  to  the  road. 
Glancing  back  and  upward,  he  saw  for  .  moment 
tl.e  bright  flame  of  a  lamp  held  aloft  at  the  little  gable 
window.    And  he  saw  a  fragile  hand  that  held  if 
and.  above  the  hand  and  the  lamp,  pale  and  wistful' 
a  face  peering  out  into  the  night,  the  holy  light  of 
prayer  still  resting  on  it. 

Then  he  pressed  on  again-  on.  i„  that  lane  of  light. 


•r  '-  .V 


/•*At. 


ni 

THE  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PULLMAN 
PORTER 

THE  Reverend  Armitagc  Seymour  had  every 
reason  to  be  resigned  to  his  lot  as  he  snug- 
gled  hack  in   the   luxurious  sleeping  car 
that  was  to  uc  his  fixed  abode  for  the  next  two  or 
three  thousand  miles.     His  slippers  were  on  his  feet, 
his   httle   slcuUcap   upon   his  head;   his  broadcloth 
coat,  infinite  of  tail,  swung  to  and  fro  from  the  hook 
above  him.  replaced,  so  far  as  the  Doctor's  shoulders 
were  concerned,  by  a  dressing  jacket  of  rather  gayer 
hue  than  befitted  the  ccrical  face  of  him  who  wore 
it.     Which  face,  relaxed  in  pleasant  anticipation,  was 
turned  witli  some  eagerness  towards  that  great  wait- 
ing West,  nearer  and  nearer  to  which  it  was  being 
borne  with  every  onward  leap  of  the  mighty  engine. 
And.  indeed,  there  are  few  sensations  more  de- 
lightful, of  a  travel  sort  at  least,  than  the  prospect  of 
the  trans-continental  journey  to  the  Canadian  West. 
The  vastness  of  it  all ;  the  mighty  plane  of  action ; 
the  vision  of  a  continent  about  to  be  traversed,  and 
in  comfort;  the  fifteen  hundred  miles  of  hill  and  plain 
and  lake  and  forest,  rich  and  enriching,  that  mu.st 

31 


32    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOJENAY 
be  crossed  before  old  Ontario  itself  is  left  behind— 
and  then  only  at  the  portal  of  this  bewildering  herit- 
age !     The  throbbing  life  of  Winnipeg,  gateway  city, 
giant  youth ;  then  mighty  sweep  of  prairie,  to  north 
and  south,  to  east  and  west  iUimitable,  staggering  the 
imagination,  yei  foreboding  destiny  not  to  be  de- 
scribed; then  at  last  the  subduing  Shadow  of  the 
distant  Rockies,  stern  sentinels  that  guard  the  Mystic 
Mazes  of  Columbia,  with  all  her  obvious  resources 
and  all  her  hidden  treasure.     And  Beyond,  laved  by 
the  western  sea.  The  Coast  !_not  designated  Pacific 
but  arbitrarily  named  The  Coast-that  Elysian  shore' 
where  gold  and  health  and  romance  and  happiness 
are  all  sublimely  mingled,  the  waves  of  its  friendly 
ocean    already  chanting   welcome  to  the   stranger, 
lullaby  to  the  weary. 

The  morning  of  the  third  day  of  journeying  found 
the  worthy  Doctor,  a  substantial  breakfast  comfort- 
ably stowed  away,  gazing  over  the  rolling  prairie 
beautiful  in  the  golden  light  of  the  sharp  autumn 
mornmg.     Here  and  there  were  great  regions  fresh 
upturned  from  the  plough,  rolling  beyond  the  eye  like 
stretches  of  tawny  ocean,  the  rich  dark  loam  still 
showing  the  frost  of  the  night  before.     And.  side  by 
side.  lay  the  broad  acres  of  stubble,  their  rich  wheaten 
harvest  evident  in  the  innumerable  stacks  that  rose, 
tnpod-shaped.  all   over  the   bosom   of  the  patient 


'T^e  REFLECTIONS  of  a  PULLMAN  PORTER   y. 
mother  that  had  borne  then.     Grayi.  .  clouds  I.a'    >f 
dust  and  half  of  smoke,  beneath  whi  n  laman  figures 
could  be  seen  in  busy  action,  bespoK.  ,I.e  '  -e^ning 
ind.istry  tliat  was  already  far  advanced.     Far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  and  farther  than  the  imagination 
could  conceive,  lay  these  vast  fertile  acres,  waiting 
for  the  tread  of  approaching  millions,  scene  of  a 
future  Nation's  life,  base  of  supplies  for  the  Empire 
that  was  as  yet  all  unconscious  of  the  mighty  heritage. 
"Porter!"    suddenly  called  the   minister;   "have 

you  got  a  time-table,  porter  ?  " 

"  Yes.  suh,"  responded  the  darkey,  pausing  in  the 

aisle;  "yes,  suh.  got  it  in  my  head,  suh-  I  knows 

ebery  station  from  Montreal  to  Vancouver  " 
"  Indeed  ! "    replied   Dr.  Seymour,  by  no  means 

overcome ;  -  then  please  tell  me  what  time  we  get  to 

Indian  Head." 

The  porter  scratched  his  own.  -  Fifteen  thirty." 
he  replied  in  a  moment ;  "  that's  half-past  three  in 
the  mawnin',  back  East  time.  suh.  Why?  you 
doesn't  get  off  at  Indian  Head.  .uh.  You'se  a-gwine 
down  through  the  Crow's  Nest  Pass,  suh-you  change 
at  Medicine  Hat ;  yes,  suh.  that's  where  me  an'  you 
parts  company,  at  Medicine  Hat.  Dunmore  Junc- 
tion, that  is— same  thing,  suh." 

"No.  I  don't  get  off  at  Indian  Head-but  I  ex- 
pect  somebody  to  join   me   there.     I'm   e.xpecting 


,r-. 


*..- 

^ii 


34    Tf^<^  SINGER  of  The  K007HNAY 
a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Owen.     But  I  won't  be 
up  at  that  unearthly  hour,  I  assure  you." 

'•  No,  suh,"  responded  the  porter.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  this  particular  passenger  to  be  quite  as- 
sured  of  i/iat  long  before  this. 

"  But  he'll  be  asking  for  mc.  He'll  ask  you  if  the 
Ivcverend  Dr.  Seymour  is  aboard-weh.  .  ,at  is  I  " 

"  Ves.  suh.  I'll  sho'  tell  hmi  you're  him,"  re- 
sponded the  porter,  uho  had  not  enjoyed  the  .-^-ly 
educational  advantages  of  the  other.  "  An'  I'll  tell 
hmi  to  be  quiet,  suh.  Is  he  a-gwine  through  the 
Crow  with  you,  suh  ?  " 

"  Ves."  responded  the  Doctor,  unbending  a  '  Ule  ■ 
"  we're  going  on  the  same  cnand-in  a  sense.  At 
least,  he's  to  lead  the  singing  at  my  meetings,  in  the 
Kootenay." 

"  Well,  suh."  the  porter  responded  cheerfully,  "  l'\l 
take  pow'ful  good  care  of  the  gen'lcman.  suh'  I'll 
get  hot  bricks  fo'  his  feet -an'  have  a  little  hot  watah 
ready;  dey  mos'  gen'lly  wants  hot  watah.  dey  does. 

Dr.  Seymour  turned  a  questioning  eye.  "  Hot 
water  .--and  hot  bncks  !  What  do  you  mean,  por- 
ter  ?  " 

"  'Zactly  what  I  says.  suh.  Dere  ain't  nobody  so 
pahtikklah  as  dem  singin'  gen'lemen  ;  got  to  hab 
ebcrythin'  jes'  so.     Dey  always  has  sore  throats   fo' 


The  REFLECTIONS  of  a  PULLMAN  PORTER  35 

07e  thing.  An'  dey  always  wants  hot  whiskey,  fo' 
anotiier— an'  plenty  sugar,  too.  So  I  gives  dem  the 
hot  watah— dey  does  the  rest.  An'  tlie  dcbbil  can't 
get  'em  up  in  the  mawnin'.suh,"  he  added  plaintively, 
yet  grinning  amiably  the  while. 

"  He's  going  to  sing  the  Gospel,  sir,"  Dr.  Seymour 
interpolated. 

"  I  knows  dat,"  responded  the  darkey ;  "  dat's  all 
right,  suh— I  ain't  got  nuffin  agen  the  Gospel;  my 
own  pop  was  a  'xhorter  down  in  ole  Kaintuck— but 
dem  singin'  gents  is  funny  birds,  suh." 

The  Doctor  seemed  disinclined  to  pursue  the  con- 
versation. Leaning  back  in  hi  -  he  picked  up 
his  book,  "  The  Threefold  Ordc  le  Ministry." 
and  pretended  to  read  it.  Yet  it  was  dry,  cruel  dry ! 
and  doubtless  the  porter  knew  it. 

"  Dere's  a  pow'ful  fine  singer  in  the  Colonist,"  he 
resumed  gravely,  still  intent  on  matters  musical. 

The  Doctor  laid  down  the  "Threefold  Order." 
"  Where  ?_what  do  you  mean  by  the  Colonist  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Colonist  car,"  the  porter  answered  laconically ; 
"  third  car  forrahd.  He's  a  peach,  all  right.  Some- 
times I  goes  forrahd  to  see  Mose— he's  the  attendant 
there,  an'  when  he  ain't  doin'  nuffin  an'  I'm  doin'  the 
same,  me  an'  him  has  a  cup  o'  coffee.  Got  their  own 
kit  in  the  Colonist,  you  know,  suh." 


36    The  SINGER  of  The  K007EN/tY 
"  Is  he  an  evangelist,  too  ?  "  enquired  the  Doctor. 
The  Ethiopian  indulged  in  a  low  drawling  chu.;Kle 
"Nofzactly;  no,  suh.  he  ain  t  no  divine,  suh-he's 
too  gay  fo-  dat.     Don't  believe  he's  eben  a  Christian 
to  say  nuffin  'bout  bein'  a  preacher.     He's  sho'  well 
up  on  cards,  suh-an'  I  was  brought  up  to  think  no 
oiie  could  be  a  Christian  an'  know  much  'bout  dem. 
He   sho'  raised  de   debbil  in  de  Colonist  last  night 
when  he  seed  a  sharper  doin'  up  a  fellah,  a  baby  kind 
o  fellah,  that  thought  he  knowed  a  thing  or  two 
Mose  said  dat  dere  singer  was  a  terrah  when  he  got 
mad ;  then  he  done  showed  'em  some  a'  .ul  clevah 
tncks-dey  was  all  babies  alongside  o'  him,  Mose 
said.     But  he  sho'  has  a  voice  like  a'  angel,  suh  "  the 
porter  concluded  fervently,  wagging  his  head  as  one 
to  whom  words  were  of  small  avail. 

"  I  never  was  in  a  Colonist  car,"  the  Doctor  ven- 
tured after  a  pause.  -  What  is  it  hke-what  class  oi 
people  patronize  it  ?  " 

"  Tol'ble  poh,  on  the  whole,  suh,"  the  porter  re- 
plied reflectively ;  "  mos'Iy  hard  up  folks,  liut  some 
C  dem's  axvful  decent  too-Mose  told  me  dey  some- 
times gives  him  a  dollah,  suh,  when  dey 're  gettin'  off," 
and  the  porter  looked  whole  volumes  at  his  fare ;  ••  an' 
he  don't  do  nuffin  at  all  for  'em,  like  what  we  does  in 
here,"  glancing  round  the  palatial  car. 
"  I  think  Id  hke  to  see  this  Colonist  coach,"  the 


The  REFLECTIONS  of  a  PULLMAN  PORTER  yj 

Doctor  returned  irrelevantly,  not  caring  to  dwell  on 
the  sordid  vein  the  porter  had  opened  up — ••  I'm  a 
great  student  of  humanity,  you  know." 

The  porter  pondered.  "  Dere's  mos'  too  much 
'manity  in  dere,  suh — if  you  does  go  in,  don't  go  in 
the  ebenin'.suh;  no,  suh,  not  when  dcy's  beginnin' 
to  stretch  out,  suh.  Dere's  mos'  too  much  'manity 
jes'  then,  suh.  I'se  got  to  go,"  he  suddenly  brok'  in 
— "  dere's  a  bell ;  it's  dat  fat  woman  with  the  oork 
leg ;  I  hab  to  ram  it  under  the  berth  ebery  night,  an' 
give  it  back  to  her  in  the  mawnin',"  and  the  faithful 
attendant  departed  on  his  errand  of  restoration. 

The  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour  returned  to  the 
"  Threefold  Order  "—and  the  day  wore  on. 

The  encircling  gloom  of  evening  was  beginning 
to  throw  its  far-flung  pall  about  the  darkening  plains 
before  the  porter  presented  himself  again.  But  sud- 
denly, just  as  the  train  was  pulling  out  of  some  in- 
significant station,  he  appeared  with  something  in  his 
hand.  "  A  telegram  fo'  you,  suh,"  he  announced 
briefly.  "  Here's  a  blank— if  dere's  an  ans-vcr,  I'll 
send  it  fo'  you  at  the  next  station." 

Dr.  Seymour  hurriedly  opened  the  envelope.     It 
was  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Assembly's  Commit- 
tee on  Evangelism,  and  this  was  the  news  it  brought : 
"  Owen  wires   us  sick  with  pneumonia  at  Indian 
Head.     Absolutely  disabled.     No  other  singer  avail- 


38     7hc  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 

able  here.     Do  beat  von  r-.^      t 

"^"tyoucan.    Try  secure  good  locil 
Ulent  or  otherwise,    lui  place  if  possible  " 

The  Doctor  pondered  long  and  deeply.    And  the 
n.ore  he  pondered  the  more  serious  did  the  situation 
appear  to  hi,„.     While  not  particularly  enthusiastic 
...msc     about  sinye..  in  general,  yet  he  recalled 
Ho-v   the    Co„,„„ttee    in    the    corresp,..,dence   Dr 
Kattr,,y  had    forwarded,  had  emphasized  the  im- 
portance of  this  feature  u,  the  projected  campaign. 
B«,des,  a  little  reflection  strengthened  the  fear  of 
helplessness  if  he  had  to  begin  to  work  thus  ,„,aided 
-wuhout  oil  for  the  wheels,  as  his  own  Hgurative 
n>.nd  suggested.    Perhaps.  ,00,  the  growing  sense  of 
Astance,  and  lonehncs,  and  the  subduing  thought  of 
hose  m,gh.y  mountains-and  all  that  was  there  en- 
reached  ,n  hostile  attitude-deepened  the  feeUng  that 
some  human  aid  would  be  as  welcome  as  it  would  be 
necessary.     What  if  there  should  be  no  singing  at  all  ■ 
he  even  thought  once,  stirring  uneasily  i„  hisLt     ' 
An  hour  or  two  later,  the  matter  having  been  more 
or  less   d,sm,ssed   from   his  mind,    and    the  time 
dragg,„g  rather  heavily,  the  Reverend  Armitage  sud- 
denly deeded  ,0  carry  into  effect  his  resolve  of  v.sit- 
■ng   the  Colonist  car.     Wherefore,  without   further 
ado,  he  arose  and  made  his  way  onward  through  the 
as    fly,„g  train.     He  was  past  the  front  sleeper,  ad 
half-way  through  the  dining  car.  when,  smihngr- 


The  REFLECTIONS  of  a  PULLMAN  PORTER  39 

proachfuUy  to  himself  and  shaking  his  head  in  mild 
wonder  that  such  a  thing  should  have  happened,  he 
turned  and  hurried  quickly  back.  He  had  forgotten 
to  discard  the  rather  festive  jacket ;  which  was  now 
soon  replaced  hy  the  black  frock  coat  of  copious  tail. 
Thus  repaired  he  made  his  way  forward  once  more 
and  was  soon  standing  in  the  aisle  of  the  car  the 
porter  had  so  vividly  described. 

Surely  there  is  not  in  all  this  vale  of  tears  any  ag- 
grc^^ation  quite  so  full  of   human  interest   as   that 
which  may  be  found  within  the  confines  of  a  trans- 
continental Colonist  car!     Ail  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  are  there.     The  shabby  genteel,  disgusted  but 
compelled  to  endure ;  the  frankly  poor,  thankful  that 
they  are  there  at  all ;  the  land  seeker,  beguiled  by 
visions  of  home  and  happiness  ;  the  prospector,  rav- 
ished by  the  gleam  of  gold  that  as  yet  lies  hidden  ; 
the  domestic  servant,  matrimonially  bent ;  the  weary 
mother,  struggling    with   weary  children,   all   sum- 
moned by  the  husband  and  father  who  waits  in  the 
distant   wilderness  ;  the  callow  youth,  suspicious   of 
all  advances  from  never  so  friendly  fellow  travellers ; 
the  aged,  hopeful  of  a  home  with  prosperous  children 
beyond  the  mountains ;  the  broken  in  health,  most 
often  the  consumptive,  whose  last  hope  is  linked  with 
the  gentle  breezes  of  the  Okanagan  or  the  mild  saline 
of  the  Pacific  shore— but  oil  moving  on,  ever  on,  and 


40    The  S/NGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

all  hoping  for  Something  ;  something  better,  in  that 
enchanted  West. 

As  Dr.  Seymour  entered  the  car  the  first  thing  to 
attract  his  eye  was  the  spectacle  of  a  little  girl,  of  ten 
or  eleven  years  of  age.  who  was  being  tenderly  cared 
for  on  the  bosom  of  a  woman  whose  face  gave  abun- 
dant evidence  of  the  solicitude  she  felt.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  conductor  came  through  the  coach 
makmg  for  the  rear.  The  minister  ventured  an  en- 
quiry. 

"  Yes,"  the  official  answered,  •'  she's  pretty  sick  • 
poor    child,    her    mother    died    last    week,    back 
in  Ontario-that  woman  that's  holding  her  is  her 
aunt.  I  believe.     And  they're  going  to  the   child's 
father    he   has    a    ranch    near  Calgary.     It's  hean 
trouble-mflammatory  rheumatism  five  yea.^  ago  it 
seems,  and  it  always  1  .aves  something.     They  had  a 
doctor  in  to  look  at  her,  at  Regma-and  that's  what 
he  said.     Sad  case,  sir,"  as  he  thrust  his  wrist  through 
the  rmg  of  his  lantern,  gave  a  tug  at  his  peaked  cap. 
and  passed  on  to  the  rear. 


IV 

rH£    DIVERSIONS   OF  A    COLONIST 

CAR 

THE  clergyman  stood  for  a  few  minutes  at 
the  back  of  the  car,  surveying  the  scene 
before  him.     The  bedraggled  travellers,  or 
a  goodly  number  of  them,  were  bestrewing  them- 
selves in  various  fantastic  attitudes,  pitifully  trying  to 
compose  themselves  to  sleep.     Half-way  down  the 
car.  in  two  seats  that  faced  each  other,  were  three  or 
four  young  men,  evidently  little  inclined  for  slumber. 
One  of  the  windows  at  their  left  was  open,  the  car 
being  close,  as  the  porter  had  opined.    Just  opposite 
them,  across  the  aisle,  were  two  gentlr  faced  girls,  of 
twenty  or  thereabout,  evidently  sisters,  who  seemed 
to  preserve  a  dignified  indifference  to  all  that  was  go- 
ing on. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  young  men,  ogling  the  girls 
as  lie  proceeded,  began  a  snatch  of  song.  The 
women  started  where  they  sat,  flushing  painfully. 
This  seemed  to  amuse  the  singer,  his  voice  now 
trilling  with  merriment.  The  suggestive  words 
could  be  distinctly  heard  all  over  the  car.  Just  then 
Dr.  Seymour  noticed  one  of  the  younger  fellows  of 
the  group,  a  tall,  well-formed  youth  with  a  great 

4X 


42  The  SINGER  of  TheKOOTENAY 
shock  of  ruddy,  rebellious  hair,  lean  over  and  ejacu- 
late something  to  the  singer  in  what  was  evidently 
a  voice  of  much  animation,  even  indi^Miatiun.  The 
vocalist,  smiling'  defiantly,  waved  his  hand  carelessly 
towards  the  interrupter ;  then  gaily  threw  a  kiss  in 
the  direction  of  the  passengers  across  the  aisle,  still 
going  on  with  the  offensive  strain. 

To  his  dy.i.g  day  the  Reverend  Arniitage  Scy- 
mour  never  forgot  the  picture  of  strength  and  passion 
that  leaped  before  him  as  he  saw  t!ic  face  of  that 
ruddy-haired  youth  that  night.  \:-  the  clergyman 
slipped  up  the  aisle  closer  to  the  scene  01"  action  he 
saw  a  face  ashy  pale,  lips  compressed,  C}  cs  Hashing 
with  purpose  and  iiidi-nation.  As  the  }'oi;th  reached 
forward  toward-^  the  audacious  singer,  the  latter,  alive 
to  the  situation,  sprang  out  into  the  ai^^lc  and  struck 
an  attitude  of  defense. 

"  Let  them  alone,"  shouted  a  couple  of  the  ncn  as 
others  showed  signs  of  interfering;  "let  liim  get 
what's  coming  to  him  -he's  big  enough.  " 

Which  was  quite  true,  the  burly  foru)  of  the  black- 
guard looming  large  as  he  poised  himself  for  action. 
••  He's  ready  for  you.  Mac  !  "  one  of  the  group  shouted, 
already  well  familiar  with  the  assailant's  name. 

Then  came  the  impact.  The  aggressor,  the  youth 
of  the  ruddy  hair,  went  wildly  at  his  opponent— and 
a  blow  from  the  other's  fist  sent  him  reeling  back 


•The  DIl^ERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR     43 

along  the  aisle.  In  «n  instant  he  had  rallied.  But, 
iinnicdiate:/  afterwards,  he  seemed  mysteriously  to 
falter  a^'uiii,  turned  dizzily  about,  stood  uncertainly  in 
tlie  narrow  jsassatje,  clinging  to  a  scat  as  if  for  sup- 
port. All  this  time  it  was  noticeable  that  he  kept 
his  back  carefully  turned  on  his  antagonist,  reeling 
slightly— but  always  reeling  a  little  closer  to  his 
enemy.  The  latter  looked  down  at  him  rather  pity- 
ingly •<  Comin'  to  find  out  this  is  a  free  country,  I 
reckon,  ain't  you,  sonny  ?  "  he  sneered  drawlingly ; 
can't  set  up  Sunday-school  just  when  you  take  a 
notion,  can  you?"  as  he  made  a  mock  motion  with 
his  foot  towards  the  still  sw^.ying  figure. 

But  the  swaving  was  to  the  ruddy-haired  youth 
what  the  crouc. . .  to  the  tiger  of  the  jungle.  Quicker 
than  a  flash  of  light,  with  the  sudden  swirl  that  had 
been  practiced  on  a  hundred  football  fields,  maddened 
with  rage  and  pain,  he  flung  himself,  bodily  lifted 
from  his  feet,  into  the  very  arms  of  the  other— through 
them,  too,  the  wild  momentum  hurling  him  on ;  and 
in  an  instant  he  was  on  his  bosom,  his  hands  clutching 
at  his  throat  as  though  they  were  a  steel  trap  Uiat 
had  just  been  sprung. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment— yet  not  all  over  either. 
Forcing  the  breath  from  the  ruffian,  lie  loosened  one 
hand  just  long  enough  to  deal  him  a  smashing  blow 
that  turned  the  songster's  attention,  for  the  time  at 


44     '^f^e  SINGER  0/  The  KOOTENAY 
least,  to  the  study  of  astronomy;  then  one  more- 
yet  once  again  he  drew  back  his  fist,  but  forcbore. 
VVitl)  a  quick  movement  of  his  foot  and  a  quick  ac- 
tion of  h.s  knee,  aided  by  correspondmR  movements 
farther  up,  he  laid  his  enemy  on  h.s  back  in  the  aisle. 
Quick  as  a  flash.  I,is  eye  leaping  wildly  about,  he 
snatched  a  pot  of  treacle,  heedless  of  the  poor  immi- 
eranfs    protest  above   the   d.n.   at   the  same  time 
clutching  a  mottled  napkin  that  lay  beside  it. 

"I'll  clean  your  dirty  mouth  for  you,  damn  you."  he 
panted  hotly,  smearing  the  molasses  over  every  fea- 
ture of  the  sensual  face,  then  faithfully  rubbing  it 
>n  till  the  quondam  singer  shone  like  old  mahogany  • 
"  you're  a  devil  of  a  fellow  at  insulting  ladies,  aren't 
you?- but  then  I'm  no  lady;  say.  I  believe  I'll  cool 
you  off-the  prairie  air  will  do  you  good,"  as  he 
turned  and  looked  significantly  at  the  open  windcw 
on  the  left. 

A  sort  of  uncanny  strength  seemed  to  have  taken 
possession  of  him;  for.  without  great  apparent  effort 
and  with  marvellous  qu.ckness.  he  lifted  the  burly 
form  and  actually  thrust  the  man.  now  roaring  lustily 
outward  through  the  window.     One  or  two  leaped  up 
in  protest,  but  by  this  time  a  sort  of  contemptuous 
grm  had  replaced  the  fren.y  on  the  conqueror's  face 
"  Don't  be  afraid-ni  keep  him   in  the  game,"  he 
murmured,  winking  significantly  to  the  men  :  -  any- 


The  DIl^ERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  C^R  ,5 
how.hc doesn't  f.t  th.s  vvay-too  broad .« tl.c shoulders 
-have  to  end  for  end  lu„,"  he  muttered-and  in  a 
nee  he  had  actually  turned  the  sprawhng  and  k.cking 
figure  around.  ,eet  foremost  as  he  shd  l„n.  along  the 
S.11  tdl  his  shoulders  were  jp.nmed  aga.nst  the  frame 
the  nether  regions  of  the  erstvvh.ie  merry  vocalist' 
"ow  danghng  .n  the  cool  prairie  air  as  the  tram 
bounded  o^^  at  forty  miles  an  hour. 

"Fur   Gods   sake,  don't!"  gasped  the  chorister, 
lus    face    showing   wlute  even   through    the   amber 

vanush;..  this,  murdcr-and  I  have  five  cluldren 
m  Ontano-for  the  love  of  heaven  let  me  u^,  and  I'll 
never-Ill  never  do  .t  agam." 

Hissubduerheldhiminagripof.ron.thevict.m 
c  awmg  u-ddly  at  his  garments,  at  the  edge  of  the  seat, 
a   everytlung.     «  Tell  those  lad.es  so."  he  demanded 

sternly;  ..tell  them  you're  sor.y_outw.thu" 
The  bur..,shed  o.ie  mumbled  his  apology 

jLouderl'-ordered  the  other;.,  they   ca..t   hear 
that-tra.n  making  quite  a  racket,  you  know  " 

llie  pe.ment  .epeated  his  vow  in  a  louder  tone 
"  Louder  yet !  "  shouted  h.s  keeper;  •.  I  .,nt  them 
all  to  hear." 

Then  the  dangling  one  roared  his  penitence  till  .t 
could  be  heard  all  over  the  car.  "  Now  let  me  in  ' 
he  pleaded,  looking  up  appeahngly.  unctuous  from 
"55  iate  aiioiiiting. 


1^ 


46    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

"  One  thing  more,"  his  controller  suggested  blandly ; 
"  you've  got  to  sing  first— you've  got  to  sing  for  the 
ladies.  I  want  you  to  show  them  you  can  sing  some- 
thing pretty," 

"What  is  it?"  gasped  the  appendage.  <' It's  in- 
fernally ccld  out  here,  I  tell  you— what  do  you  want 
me  to  sing  ? " 

"  A  nice  little  verse  of  a  hymn,"  replied  he  of  the 
ruddy  hair. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will,"  the  other  returned 
promptly,  doubtless  beginning  to  realize  by  now  that 
his  life  at  least  was  safe. 

"  Better  think  it  over."  was  the  calm  reply ;  -  you 
see,  I'm  your  manager  on  this  tour— shouldn't  won- 
der if  I'm  your  proprietor,"  grinning  amiably  round 
upon  the  brethren  as  he  spoke ;  "  and  I  kind  o"  think 
you'll  have  to  fall  in  with  my  ideas— or  else  fall  out," 
the  grin  broadening  as  he  gave  him  a  push  towards 
the  wide,  wide  world.     The  attache  howled  in  terror. 
"  Besides,"  the  r.    nager  went  on,  "  we'll  soon  be  at 
Swift  Current  now—and   you'll   cut  a  nice   figure, 
coming  into  the  station  like  a  piece  o'  human  wall 
paper." 

"  Yes,  the  dogs  Ml  bite  at  you,"  suggested  one  of 
the  young  men  on  the  seat. 

"  An'  the  crows  '11  peck  at  you,"  another  cheerfully 
added. 


7lte  DIVERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR     47 

"  An'  the  Indians  '11  shoot  at  you,"  contributed  an 
elderly  man,  a  retired  farmer,  from  across  the  aisle. 

Whether  it  was  the  force  of  the  culminative  argu- 
tnent,  or  the  astringent  influence  of  the  prairie 
breezes,  or  the  artificial  colic  that  the  unnatural  atti- 
tude  was  beginning  to  provoke,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say.  But  in  any  case  the  reluctant  vocalist  was 
finally  brought  to  jicld.  "  Wiiafs  your  bloomin' 
hymn  ?  "  he  suddenly  demanded  savagely. 

"  Not  very  nice  language  for  a  man  hanging  in  the 
balance."  the  manager  reflected  blandly—"  but  you'll 
improve.  Sing  <  I  want  to  be  an  Angel '  -an'  sing  it 
quick." 

"  Can't  mind  the  words."  pleaded  the  shining 
mulatto. 

"  I'll  give  'em  to  you-line  for  line,  like  the  old 
precentors  used  to  do."  replied  his  proprietor. 
"  Come  now,  sing  it  out    here  goes." 

And  then,  the  whole  car  entranced  as  it  listened, 
there  floated  from  the  betreacled  lips,  accompanied 
by  a  look  of  shame  and  anguish  that  gleamed  through 
the  rich  enamel  on  the  protruding  face,  the  old  fa- 
miliar words  : 


"  I  want  to  be  an  angel, 
And  with  the  angels  stand, 
A  crown  upon  my  forehead 
And  a  harp  within  my  hand." 


48    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

"  Yes,  you'd  be  a  bute — come  in  out  o'  the  wet," 
said  his  preceptor  as  the  last  sacred  strains  died 
away,  seizing  him  by  both  shoulders  and  restoring 
him  with  a  mighty  jerk  to  the  seat  he  had  occupied 
before,  while  a  murmur  of  pent-up  emotion  broke 
from  the  enchanted  audience. 

The  now  victorious  combatant,  smiling  placidly, 
walked  away  from  the  scene  of  action  and  seated 
himself  quietly  some  distance  down  the  aisle.  He 
was  scarcely  settled  before  he  was  accosted  by  none 
other  than  the  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour,  who 
had  been  a  rivetted  spectator  of  the  drama  just  con- 
cluded. 

"  I  want  to  shake  your  hand,  sir,"  he  began  warmly, 
extending  his  own.  ••  I  am  the  Reverend  Dr.  Sey- 
mour, of  St.  Enoch's  Church,  VVardsville— and  I'm 
proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir.  May  I  ask 
your  name  ?  "  as  he  sat  down  beside  him. 

"  McLean— my  name  is  Murray  McLean,"  replied 
the  other. 

"And  may  I  ask  where  you're  going,  sir  ?"  tLe 
stranger  continued. 

"I'm  going  to  British  Columbia."  replied  the 
younger;  "  co  the  Kootenay— to  a  little  town  called 
Rockclifife.     You've  probrbly  heard  of  it." 

"  Why,  bless  my  heart,"  cried  the  minister,  "  that's 
the  very  place  I'm  going  to  myself.    And  I  hope 


The  DIVERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR  49 
I'll  see  something  of  you  there.  I  was  simply  de- 
lighted with  the  part  you  took  in  the  recent— the 
recent  interview,"  the  Doctor  concluded  warmly, 
glancing  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the 
other  coUoquist. 

His  new-found  acquaintance  could  not  forbear  a 
grin.    ••  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  opinion,  sir." 

"  Kind !  it's  not  kind— it's  only  just,"  the  clergy- 
man responded  warmly ;  "  I'm  a  minister,  I  know- 
but  it  was  magnificent,  the  way  you  handled  that 
creature  there." 

"  Oh,  he's  not  half  so  bad  as  he  appears,"  Murray 
replied  carelessly ;  "  only  he  needed  a  cooling— and 
I  reckon  he'll  be  more  careful.     He  forgot  himself." 

"  Magnificent !  repeated  the  minister,  not  noting 
the  defense.  "  I  never  saw  anything  better  done. 
The  only  thing  I  regretted— I  hope  you'll  pardon  me, 
sir— was,  was  the  rather  strong,  indeed,  sir,  the  rather 
vigorous  language  you  were  provoked  into  employ- 
ing—not to  say  profane,  sir ;  not  to  say  profane," 
and  the  Reverend  Armitage  shook  his  head  remon- 
strativcly. 

Murray  McLean  flushed  a  little.  "  Is  that  so  ?  '• 
he  answered  calmly  after  a  moment.  "I  wasn't 
aware  ^f  it— what  did  I  say,  sir,  that  was  out  of  the 
way  ?  " 

Dr.  Seymour  looked  cautiously  around  to  make 


'J  i 


50    7A^  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 
sure  that  no  one  was  near  enough  to  hear.     Then, 
drawing  close  up  to  his  companion,  he  whispered: 
"  You  said  « damn,'  sir  .'  " 

"  You  don't  call  that  out  of  the  way,  do  you?" 
returned  Murray ;  "  for  a  brute  like  that ! "  forgetful 
of  his  former  defense,  glancing  at  the  same  time 
towards  the  individual  in  question.  Which  indi- 
vidual was  imploring  one  or  other  of  his  erstwhile 
boon  companions  to  scrape  him  off,  neither  one  evi- 
dently inclined  to  undertake  the  repairs. 

The  minister  adju:  .-d  his  tie.  pondering  a  moment. 
"  Even  if  the  appellation  was,  was  a  fitting  one,"  he 
began  elaborately,  "that  doesn't  excuse  the  pro- 
fanity." 

"  It  wasn't  an  appellation— it  was  an  explosive," 
retorted  Murray,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  well,  let  it  go,"  the  minister  returned  blandly; 
"  I  know  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"  Mean  it  .'—you  bet  I  meant  it,"  his  companion 
answered  a  little  warmly.  "  But  I'm  sorry  you  heard 
it,  sir,  if  it  hurt  your  feelings.  By  the  way,  I  haven't 
seen  you  in  this  car  before?"  he  went  on,  willing  to 
end  the  argument. 

The  clergyman  was  about  to  make  some  reply,  but 
just  at  that  moment  the  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  a  touch  on  Murray's  shoulder  from  behind,  ac- 
companied by  a  gentle  voice.    «  That  lady  in  the 


The  Dll^ERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR     51 

seat  near  the  door  wants  you ;  she  says  the  little 
girl's  worse— and  she's  been  asking  for  you." 

"  Is  it  that  child  with  the  pink  ribbon  in  her  hair  ?  " 
Dr.  Seymour  asked  quickly,  his  interest  evidently 
aroused ;  "  the  one  in  charge  of  that  elderly  lady  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  said  Murray,  rising,  "  she's  from  Toronto,  I 
beUeve.  Her  name's  Audrey  Overend.  But  I  thought 
the  little  thing  was  better ,  it's  some  heart  trouble." 
"So  I  believe,"  answered  the  other;  "the  con- 
ductor told  me  about  her— what  do  you  suppose  she 
wants  you  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we're  old  cronies,"  Murray  answered,  smil- 
ing. "They  came  on  at  North  Bay  and  we've 
chummed  it  more  or  less  ever  since— funny,  how 
fond  a  fellow  grows  of  a  kid  hke  that.  I  sang  her 
some  little  songs,"  the  manly  face  flushing  a  little, 
"just  to  pass  the  time  for  her;  and  I  expect  that's 
what  she  wants  now.  By  Jove ! "  as  he  started  down 
the  aisle,  "  but  the  little  darhng's  looking  bad,  isn't 
she?"  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  pallid  face  against 
the  black  of  the  woman's  bosom. 

He  hurried  over  to  where  she  lay,  gasping  a  little, 
in  the  arms  of  her  devoted  guardian.  White  and 
fragile,  the  face  was  yet  possessed  of  that  random 
beauty  we  have  surely  all  encountered  in  the  most 
casual  way.  Who  is  there,  if  travel  at  all  has  been 
his  portion,  that  does  not  recall  some  face— espe- 


i 


52    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
cially  some  girlish  facc-whose  sweetness  has  lin- 
gered  with  him  long  after  the  div.dmg  path  has 
borne  it  from  his  sight?    Across  the  aisle  in  a 
crowded  hall,  flashed  swiftly  by  in  train  or  carriage, 
gleaming  for  a  moment  from  the  window  of  a  railway 
train,  glimpsed  for  an  instant  on  the  crowded  street 
the  nameless  vision  has  still  been  cherished  through 
the  years,  one  of  the  wayside  flowers  that  the  Crea- 
tor's hand  has  scattered  along  the  dusty  paths  of 
life  that  weary  pilgrims  may  snatch  a  moment's  joy. 
"  I  wanted  you,  Mr.  Murray,"  she  said  faintly  as 
he  came  and  bended  over  her,  employing  the  name 
he  had  taught  her;  "  what  were  you  and  that  man 
domg  in  the  aisle?"  she  asked,  the  big  eyes  wide 
with  wonder.     -  Were  you  playing  ?  " 

Murray  winced.    "  Yes,"  he  answered  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation;  "yes,  we  were  playing.  Audrey." 
"  What  were  you  playing  at>"  she  pereisted.  the 
hds  drooping  heavily  over  the  tired  eyes. 

"  We  were  playing  at_we  were-oh,  we  were 
playing  Bull  in  the  Ring,  dear."  Murray  answered, 
relieved  by  the  fitting  title. 

"  It's  a  pretty  rough  game,  isn't  it?  "  the  child  en- 
quired, sinking  back  afresh  on  the  woman's  bosom^ 
"  and  are  you  all  through  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Murray,  keeping  back  a  smile,  "  yes. 
It  s  all  over." 


'■}:<A*- 


The  DIVERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR    53 

"  Then  I  want  you  to  sing  to  me,"  she  said,  the 
note  imperious  (usual  accompaniment  to  beaut)-)  in 
the  weakening  voice. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered  cheerfully ;  ••  what  shall 
it  be?—'  Three  Blind  Mice  '  again,  dear  ?  " 

The  child  smiled,  nodding  her  head.  Murray  sang 
the  toy  thing  through,  gently,  his  back  to  the  rest 
of  the  passengers,  most  of  whom  were  now  settling 
themselves  for  such  rest  as  they  might  hope  to  snatch. 
"  Little  Moses  on  the  Bank  "  came  next;  and  one  or 
two  more  of  the  doggerel  variety  known  to  all 
students. 

Suddenly  the  child's  face  paled  to  the  whiteness 
of  death,  and  she  laid  her  hand  plaintively  over  her 
heart.  The  anguished  woman  bended  above  her. 
"  Lift  me  up,"  the  faint  voice  said,  ••  up,  higher—it's 
so  hard  to  breathe." 

They  lifted  her  close  to  the  half  open  wino.w. 
The  eyes  were  strangely  dull  and  bright  by  turns, 
and  a  burning  fever  seemed  to  have  kindled  in  a 
moment. 

"  Where  are  we  going.  Aunt  Bessie  ? "  the  little 
voice  asked  strangely;  -  surely  we  are  far  away  from 
home-and  mother.     When  am  I— going-home  ?  " 

"Soon,  dear,"  came  the  woman's  choking  voice; 
"soon,  now,  dear_I  think-Im  almost  sure,  my 
darhng." 


54    Tl^e  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  Sma  some  more,  Mr.  Murray."  she  faltered,  turn- 
ing the  arge  lustrous  eyes  full  on  his  white  face 
-"but  difTerent.  Something  about  heaven-and 
home ;  oh,  I'm  so  tired-and  I  want  to  go  home  " 

Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  his  ^ce  and  the  con- 
stramt  was  of  tl,e  eternal.     Swiftly  he  rummaged  in 
memory's  halls  for  some  fitting  snatch  of  song.    And 
lo !  so  mextinguishable  are  the  lights  kindled  by  a 
mother's  hand,  there  rose  before  him.  clear  and  beau- 
tiful and  sacred,  the  vision  of  far  other  days  when 
the  sm  and  the  struggle  and  the  shame  were  all 
unknown  to  his  own  childish  heart.     He  saw  again 
the  lowly  cottage,  again  the  fragile  form,  her  eyes 
shaded  by  her  hand  and  with  the  Bible  at  her  side  ■ 
and  again,  sweet  and  ringing,  he  heard  the  dear  voice 
of  h.s  mother  as  she  sang,  and  as  she  taught  him  to 
sing,  those  words  that  we  all  believed  with  the  sim- 
Plicity  of  childhood's  faith,  that  we  would  give  all 
the  world  so  to  believe  again.      Back  to  his  mind, 
like  some  long  forgetful  tide,  there  flowed  the  pure 
and  precious  words,  which  now  he  sang,  careless  as 
to  who  might  hear,  intent  only  on  this  ministry  of 


"  Around  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven 
Thousands  of  children  stand, 
Children  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
A  holy,  happy  band." 


The  DIVERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR    55 

The  child's  face  showed  her  joy.  She  too  had 
heard  the  noble  strain  before ;  and  had  drunk,  further 
down  the  stream,  of  that  holy  tide.  From  a  mother's 
lips,  now  sealed  in  death,  she  too  had  learned  the 
glowing  words— and  some  vision  splendid  of  their 
reality  and  truth  surely  gleamed  before  her  as  she  lay 
in  that  dying  hour,  unrecognized  though  it  was,  and 
heard  the  great  refrain  once  more  from  a  stranger's 
lips. 

"  Another,"  she  faltered ;  "  sing  some  more." 
The    wondrous   voice,   kindling   with    deepening 
passion,  rose  again : 


"  What  brought  them  to  that  world  above, 
That  heaven  so  bright  and  fair, 

Where  all  is  peace  and  joy  and  love 

How  came  those  children  there? " 


She  needed  not  to  ask  for  the  closing  verse.  The 
strong  face  of  the  man.  a  few  minutes  before  so  dark 
with  stormy  wrath,  was  now  transfigured  with  a  light 
-strange  though  it  be  to  say  it  -that  was  none  other 
than  spiritual  beauty.  The  majesty  of  this  service, 
though  he  knew  it  not,  had  taken  possession  of  his 
soul.  Smihng  down  upon  the  dying  child  with  an 
ineffable  tenderness,  his  whole  being  aglow  with  the 
winsomeness  of  love,  his  voice  rising  clear  and  reso- 


56    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

nam  and  athrob  ^vith  subtle  power,  tlie  strain  swelled 
from  his  lips : 

"  On  earth  they  sought  the  Saviour's  grace, 
Oil  earth  they  loved  His  name  — 
So  now  they  see  His  blessed  foce 
And  stand  before  the  Lamb." 

Wearyr  travellers  stirred  themselves  from  their  semi- 
slumber.    Here  and  there  the  travel-stained  faces  lifted 
themselves  up  into  the  dim  light  of  the  shabby  car 
turnmg  wistfully  towards  the  font  of  song  as  those 
who  recognized  a  note  Immortal  amid  these  sordid 
scenes.     For  the  words,  and  the  passion  that  rendered 
them,  were  from  Afar-and  some  there  were  among 
these  humble  travellers   who   had  left  little  lonely 
graves   in   quiet  cemeteries   far  behind   them;  and 
some  were  themselves  weary  of  life's  hard  journey  • 
and  all  were  the  Pilgrims  of  the  Night,  to  whom' 
this  morning  song  came  as  a  Dayspring  from  on 
high. 

Silence  fell.  And  the  train  rushed  onward  through 
the  night.  Murray  was  standing  now.  ending  above 
the  httle  form,  his  eyes  fixed  with  infinite  yearning 
upon  the  now  death-like  face.  Suddenly  the  child 
raised  herself,  her  arms  outstretched,  her  eyes  bright 
with  unearthly  light.  --  Oh,  I  s.e  them ! "  she 
cned  as  if  in  rapture,  - 1  see  the  lights  of  home.     And 


■,f.,- 


The  DISPERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR    57 

mother !— Oh,  mother,  is  that  you  ?— I  knew  you'd 
come,"  as  the  dying  eyes  leaped  out  through  the 
window  into  the  surrounding  gloom. 

"It's  the  train  light  she  sees,"  whispered  the 
woman,  with  white  lips—"  she  sees  the  reflection  in 
the  dark." 

"  No,"  came  Murray's  breaking  voice  ;  «'  no,  it's 
no  reflection — it's  the  reality." 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,  mother,"  the  dying  voice 
broke  in.  "  And  you'll  go  home  with  me  now — you'll 
go  all  the  way  with  me,  won't  you,  mother  ?  "  as  the 
face  lightened  with  a  great  and  foreign  gladness. 
Then  the  eyes  closed  gently,  the  breath  came  in  one 
or  two  fitful  gusts—and  the  little  traveller,  weary  of 
life's  lonely  way,  went  forth  on  the  long  journey  to 
that  City  which  hath  foundations,  fashioned  not  of 
time. 

Murray  closed  the  sightless  eyes  and  laid  her 
gently  back,  making  a  soft  couch  for  the  tired  frame 
whose  struggle  v^as  now  forever  past.  The  woman 
drew  a  handkerchief  over  the  silent  face,  but  Murray 
pleaded  that  it  should  be  withdrawn.  Why  should 
v/e  conceal  anything  so  fair?  he  urged;  and  the 
lovely  features  made  reply  impossible.  Then  he 
stood  beside  her — watching. 

Marvellous  is  the  transforming  touch  ot  the  un- 
seen.    As  it  by  instinct,  this  motley  throng  of  trav- 


58     The  SINGER  of  The   KOo7lNy4Y 


e  Great 

n,  and 

air  of 

i*asscn- 


ellers   seemed  to  recognize  that  Dt     ' 
Dignifier  of  the  lowly,  had  come     ^ 
all,  even  the  weariest,  took  on  tlu- 
those  who  watch  beside  their  dead.      i. 
gers  were  the  same  as  a  half  hour  be 
band  of  pilgrims,  pitifully  groping  tl  ^ 

to    unknown    paths;    still   were  th.  a    '.ai  rs, 

ranchers,  ploughmen— still  but  stained   md  s  ^         i 
emigrants.     And   the   swaying  car.  j.st  as  bciure. 
was  but  a  homely  and  sordid  thinp.  disfipjured  by 
coatless  forms  huddling  \n  uncomfortable  corners  and 
dishevelled  women  loiuying  for  the  day,  whde  dis- 
ordered    hampers    rnd   musty  bedding  made  it  all 
appear   more   stained  and   sordid   st.U.      Yet   now, 
beneath    the   magic  touch   of   Death,   this  wa^   all 
transformed  till  things  animate  and  inanimate  alike 
took  on  the  dignity  that  befits  the  abode  of  the  great 
Conqueror—and  no  Cathedral  with  its  mystic  light, 
no  mansion  with  its  drawn  blinds  and  muffled  voices.' 
coul  •  -    ve  been  more  stately  in  its  solemn  pomp  than 
this  rude  funeral  car  had  now  become.     A  Uttle  child 
lay  dead  there— and  something  of  the  Supernatural 
hushed  every  strident  noise  and  touched  with  soft- 
ness every  hardened  face  and  chastened   with  the 
sense  of  Mystery  every  restless  and  avaricious  heart. 
Thus  wore  the  night  away.     Midnight  had  passed 
before  the  train  arrived  at  Medicine  Hat,  the  junction 


Ihe  DiyERSIONS  of  a  COLONIST  CAR    59 

point,  where  travellers   for  the  Crow's   Nest   Pass 
change  to  the  southern  line. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Murray  McLean  strf>ve  to  con- 
ceal his  grief  as  he  stood,  his  satchel  in  his  hand,  and 
took  a  long  larewcll  of  the  lovely  face  beneath  him. 
A  week  l>efore  he  had  not  known  she  was  Uving — 
now  Jie  felt  as  if  he  had  known  her  always,  as  if  she 
belonged  to  him  forever. 

He  turned   away  at  last,  for  a  stentorian  voice 
without  was  bidding  passengers  for  "  the  Crow  "to 
find  their  train  on  the  adjoining  track.     The  woman 
followed  him  out  into  the  darkened  vestibule.     "  I'll 
write  you  when  we  get  to  Calgary,"  she  said  brokenly 
— "  as  soon  as  it's  all  over.     Oh,  how  can  I  meet 
Audrey's  father  .'"she  moaned.     Then  in  a  firmer 
voice :  "  You'll  never  know,  sir,  all  you  were  to  my 
little  darling — all  that  you  did  for  her  ;  your  singing 
cheered  her  up  so  much  when  she  was  lonely — and 
that  last  song  you  sang  !  "  the  face  now  bui  .ed  in  her 
hands.     "  Oh,  sir,"  she  resumed,  struggling  to  control 
herself,  "  there's  just  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you 
— I  know  she  would  have  wanted  me  to  bay  it — 
wherever  you  are,  and   wherever  you  travel,  you'll 
find    sickness    and  sorrow  and   sin.     Perhaps    you 
won't  always  know  it — but  it's  always  there.     And 
wherever  you  get  a  chance,  like  God  gave  you  here, 
I  want  you  to  help  the  people  that  need  you  so. 


6o     The    SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Good-bye,  good-bye— <iuick,  we're  moving  now— 
and  God  bless  you,  dear  friend,  and  reward  you  for 
all  you've  been  to  a  little  dying  girl.  Good-bye, 
good-bye ! "  as  she  pressed  his  hand  again  and  turned 
back  to  her  lonely  vigil  beside  her  precious  dead. 


"j4    kind   of  a    SPORT" 

MUCH  might  be  said, or  written,  concerning 
the  relation  of  scenery  and  the  soul.    For 
instance,  it  can  be  fairly  well  established 
that  no  great  poet  was  ever  bred  far  distant  from  the 
sea.    A  stoical  old  Scot  told  me  once,  in  a  com- 
municative moment,  that  the  ciaisification  of  his 
countrymen   in  terms   of  scenery  was   well    worth 
thinking  about.    The  ploughmen,  said  he,  whose 
eyes  are  necessarily  downward  cast,  are  of  tlie  earth 
earthy.    But  mark,  he  went  on  reflectively,  the  dif- 
ference with  the  shepherds.     Roaming  the  eternal 
hills,  reckoning  with  every   wind,  questioning  the 
clouds,  communing  with  the  stars,  eyes  and  heart 
bounded  only  by  the  horizon  and  the  vaulted  dome 
and  wandering  at  will  within  those  mighty  limits, 
the  Scottish  shepherd  of  the  hills  is  probably  the 
noblest  type  of  man,  thoughtful,  poetic,  spiritual. 

The  richest  natures  are  hill  born  and  answer  readily 
to  the  call  of  the  mountain.  And  parable  of  all 
nobler  lives,  in  many  ways,  is  this  vast  Canadian 
West.  For  ev.ry  true  life,  if  it  struggle  bravely  on, 
will  one  day  outlive  the  monotony  of   the  prairie 

6i 


^^^^^Hn^^HHiSRSBB^ 


^11 


62  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
stretches,  leave  their  bleak  uniformity  behind,  and 
breathe  at  last  the  pure  air  of  the  Uplands  that  lead  to 
the  everlasting  hiUs.  Treeless,  arid,  commonplace 
may  be  life's  initial  plain ;  but  the  Mountains  are  be- 
yond, august  in  their  silent  dignity  and  kindly  scorn 
—and  there  waits  the  many-coloured  verdure,  there 
the  towering  trees,  there  the  gushing  springs  and  leap- 
ing brooks  that  give  life  affluence  and  beauty. 

There  are  kw  experiences  so  exhilarating  to  the 
soul  as  that  which  fell  to  the  lot  of  our  travellers  twain 
when  the  light  of  the  next  morning  called  them  to 
awake  and  behold  the  glories  that  surrounded  them. 
The  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour  turned  in  his  lux- 
urious berth;  Mr.  Murray  McLean  lifted  his  head 
from  the  cramped  and  narrow  seat,  a  somewhat  aching 
head,  for  a  window  sill  is  but  a  sorry  pillow.  Yet.  so 
impartial  is  the  all-giving  Hand  in  the  dispensation  of 
life's  real  luxuries,  both  men  fared  aUke  as  they  looked 
out  upon  the  wondrous  scene. 

For  they  were  among  the  mountains !  Strange, 
almost  intoxicating,  emotion  this— after  half  a  conti- 
nent of  level  prairie,  wearisome  in  its  unchanging 
outline,  to  find  the  earth  so  suddenly  ennobled;  as  if 
in  wrath,  scornful  of  those  mediocre  ways,  breaking 
forth  into  these  sublimities  that  charm  and  overawe, 
into  wild  and  bewildering  non-conformity.  There 
they  stood,  silently  remindful  of  the  Power  that  has 


"//    KIND   of  a   SPORT"  63 

not   forgotten,  attested  here  in    a  thousand  won- 
drous ways. 

Dr.  Seymour  rang  his  bell.  "Are  these  the 
Rockies  ?  "  he  asked  the  porter  as  he  appeared ;  the 
tone  would  liave  befitted  some  one  asking  if  tliis  were 
the  Judgment  Day.  And,  after  all,  is  there  anything 
so  like  an  Impersonation  of  that  same  Judgment 
Day  as  the  awful  form  of  some  mighty  mountain,  its 
cloud-girdled  head  lost  in  the  heavenlies  ? 

"  Dat's  what,"  replied  the  negro.  "  The  foot-hills, 
some  calls  'em— but  dey's  pow'ful  big  feet.  I  alius 
tells  em,"  as  he  drew  the  curtains  together  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Again   and  again   did  this  parish   minister  draw 
down  the  springy  shade  and  let  it  fly  upward  with  a 
bound.     He  was  trying  to  repeat  his  first  great  ex- 
perience of  a  few  minutes  before ;  to  "  recapture  that 
first  fine  careless  rapture  "—but  in  vain.     The  thrill 
of  the  first  overvvhelming  gUmpse  of  the  Rockies  can 
never  be  felt  but  once.     Wherefore,  hurriedly  dress- 
ing, he  betook  himself  to  the  rear  platform  of  the 
train ;  fror.;  which  vantage  ground  he  drank  his  fill 
of  the  majesty  about  him.     Tier  upon  tier  the  moun- 
tains seemed  to  rise,  stern,  silent  witnesses  of  the 
fevered  life  beneath,  yet  grandly  indifferent  to  it  all, 
as  though   their  concern  was   altogether  with   the 
heights  amid  which  they  reared  their  heads. 


!," 


If  • 


64    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Slowly  the  train  steamed  into  a  station,  tiny,  so 
tiny,  as  it  nestled  at  the  base  of  the  monsters  that 
overhung  it. 

"  V^''  '■  place  is  this  ?  "  enquired  Dr.  Seymour  of 
the  bi  k(  nan  who  had  come  to  remove  the  tail- 
lamps        ne  train. 

"Thi.  js  Frank,  sir.  Frank,  British  Columbia," 
he  elaborated, «'  where  they  had  the  terrible  tragedy 
a  few  years  ago.  Look  forward,  sir— step  down  here 
and  look  around  and  you'll  see  it." 

The  Doctor  did  as  bidden.    "  Good  heavens ! "  he 
exclaimed,   awestruck.  "  what  is   that  ?— did  mortal 
eyes  ever  see  such  a  spectacle— what  tragedy  do  you 
refer  to,  sir  ? "  unconsciously  walking  forward  as  he 
spoke,  his  e>  wS  roaming  about  the  dreadsome  scene. 
"  Don't   go  too   far   forward,  sir,"  cautioned   the 
brakeman ;  «« the  train  is  liable  to  start  any  minute— 
and  it's  vestibuled.     This  ?— why,  this  is  Frank,  as  I 
told  you.    Don't  you  remember — this  is  where  they 
had  the  awful  mountain  slide  some  years  ago.     That 
there's   the  mountain  that  gave  way,"  pointing   to 
a  rocky  giant  on  the  left— "  at  least,  that's  what's 
left  of  it.     The  track's  built  right  over  the  top  of  the 
boulders,  sir— an*  when  this  slide  came,  every  living 
thing  was  killed  except  one  baby.     It  was  found  on 
top  of  the  heap  after  it  was  all  over— and  there  ain't 
any  accountin'  for  how  it  got  there.     They  never  got 


r^r^,: 


.2!! 


"A    KIND   of  a   SPORT"  65 

nobody  out-an'  never  will.  See  all  them  fearful 
boulders,  sir,  piled  up  on  top  of  each  other— see.  that 
there  one's  ten  times  the  size  of  this  whole  Irain. 
Well,  them  was  part  of  a  mountain  once— an'  the 
whole  thing  came  down  without  a  moment's  warning. 
Just  a  roar-then  all  dark  and  all  dead.  Better  dimb 
aboard,  sir— we're  a-movin'  now." 

The  clergyman  tarried  a  while  on  the  platform  as 
the  train  steamed  slowly  out,  viewing  in  sad  amaze- 
mcnt  this  modern  .  .mpeii.  There  it  lay  somewhere 
-none  knew  exactly  where-that  once  smiling 
hamlet,  now  consigned  to  eternal  darkness,  its  once 
happy  inmates  buried  somewhere  beneath  the  tens 
of  thousands  of  tons  that  were  mingled  in  fantastic 
attitudes  to  form  the  mightly  mausoleum. 

The  sight  was  speedily  lost  to  view  as  the  train, 
pursuing  its  circuitous  path,  went  stealthily  on  its' 
way.  Then  the  Doctor,  subdued  but  by  no  means 
mclmed  to  fast,  made  his  way  to  the  dining  car. 
"  What  hath  man  wrought,"  he  reflected.  "  when  one 
can  have  a  luxurious  breakfast,  even  to  finger  bowls, 
amid  this  primeval  wildness ! " 

The  morning  meal  over,  and  well  attended  to  at 
that,  the  Reverend  Armitage  now  bethought  himself 
of  his  companion  of  the  night  before.  He  smiled  as 
he  recalled  the  valour  of  the  youth  and  the  prowess 
that  had  stood  him  in  such  good  stead :  then  his  face 


66  7he  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
sobered  to  sadness  as  he  saw  again  the  winsome  fea- 
tures of  the  dead  child  in  the  Colonist  car.  Was  she 
still  recumbent  on  that  narrow  seat  ?  he  wondered. 
Thus  musing,  Uie  minister  made  his  way  forward 
to  the  Colonist  car ;  a  glance  from  the  door  soon 
showed  him  that  it  was  in  every  way  a  facsimile  of 
that  other  one  which  had  gone  on  with  the  main 
train  to  the  coast. 

A    moment's  scrutiny  revealed  Murray   McLean 
sitting  alone  in  the  centre  of  the  coach ;  a  few  orange 
peelings  on  the  window-seat  indicated  the  scope  of 
his  breakfast.     Dr.  Seymour  went  forward  and  sat 
down  beside  him.     After  each  had  enquired  as  to 
how  the  other  passed  the  night,  Murray's  account  be- 
ing rather  doleful,  the  two  men  naturally  fell  into  a 
discussion  of  the  magnificent  scenery  about  them.    In 
the  course  of  the  conversation  Murray  remarked,  not 
without  some  hesitation  :  "  The  thing  that  strikes  me 
most  about  these  mountains  is  the  way— tlie  way 
they  L'ind  of  comfort  a  fellow.     There's  something 
wonderfully  soothing  about  them." 

The  other  eyed  him  curiously.  ••  Why,"  he  be- 
gan, "  you  don't  mean  to  imply  that  a  young  fellow 
like  you  needs  comforting  ?  You  haven't  any  sor- 
row, have  you  ?  " 

Murray  returned  some  evasive  answer,  but  his  com- 
panion was  still  on  the  scent. 


'.S-rH 


"y4   KIND   of  a    SP0R7"  67 

"  I  should  think  you'd  carry  the  sources  of  comfort 
within  yourself,"  he  ventured,  smiUng  amiably.  "  It 
seems  to  me  anybody  with  a  voice  hke  yours  ought 
to  be  always  happy—like  the  birds,  you  know." 

"  Better  ask  the  birds,"  Murray  replied  with  a 
laugh ;  "  and  anyhow,  I  think  lots  of  people  make 
more  of  my  voice  than  it  deserves— no,  I'm  not  fish- 
ing. I  suppose  it's  all  right  for  singing  rollick- 
ing college  songs— like  I  did  last  night,"  his  face 
clouding  as  he  recaUed  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
scenes. 

"I  had  forgotten  about  the  college  songs,"  the 
minister  returned  soberly ;  ••  but  I  shall  never  forget 
that  other.  Say,  Mr.  McLean,"  leaning  over  confi- 
dentially as  he  spoke,  •<  have  you  any  idea,  any  con- 
ception whatever,  of  the  power  you  have  to  touch  the 
heart  ?  I  mean,  did  you  hear  yourself  when  you  sang 
that  child's  hymn  last  night?" 

Murray  was  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  myself,"  he  replied  after  a  long  pause— 
"  wasn't  thinking  of  anything  but  that  dear  child. 
Terrible,  wasn't  it,  how  suddenly  the  end  came  at 
last  ?  They  won't  be  so  very  far  from  Calgary  now, 
will  they  ? "  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Her  poor 
father  !— my  heart  aches  for  him." 

The  clergyman  moved  a  little  closer  to  Murray's 
side ;  something  in  his  face  showed  that  he  was  in- 


^. 


68    7he  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

tent  on  some  particular  purpose.     It  was  soon  re- 
vealed. 

"  Mr.  McLean,"  h-  began  abruptly,  evidently  com- 
ing to  a  quick  conclusion,  "  do  you  believe  in  special 
providences  ?  " 

Murray  hesitated,  smiling  perplexedly.  "Yes,  I 
guess  so— I  presume  I  do.  At  least.  I  ought  to,  I 
was  always  taught  to-my  mother  certainly  does, 
anyhow.  And  I  fancy  her  creeds  mostly  mine.  At 
least,  I'm  sure  it's  good  enough  for  me." 

"That's  well  spoken,  my  man,"  the  Doctor  an- 
swered, highly  pleased-"  they  can't  improve  much 
on  a  mother's  creed,  can  they  ?    But  anyhow,  I'll  tell 
y.  u  why  I  asked  that  question.    All  this  looks  to  me 
like  a  very  special  providence.     I  mean,  the  way  you 
and  I  have  been  thrown  together.    The  fact  is,  Mr. 
McLean,  to  come  right  to  the  point— the  fact  is,  I 
believe  you're  the  man  I  need.    And  it  may  be,  I 
don't  know,  it  may  be  that  you  need  me.     I  think 
you  told  me  yesterday  that  you  were  going  to  the 
Kootenay  too—to  niake  your  own  way.     Without 
anything  particular  in  view,  I  mean— isn't  that  so  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  Murray  answered  abstractedly,  staring  very 
hard.    "  But  what  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  you 
wanting  me?     You're  a  minister— ai  .1  you  haven't 
come  out  here  to  hire  men.  have  you  ?  "  summoning 
a  semblance  of  merriment  as  he  spoke. 


^trtASJv:%/«:"^'TSK0%  "■.■?'J5»" 


"^   KIND  of  a   SPORT"  69 

"  Well,"  replied  his  companion,"  in  a  certain  sense, 
r  have.  At  least,  I  want  to  hire  one.  The  fact  is, 
Mr.  McLean,"  turning  squarely  around  till  he  faced 
his  astonished  auditor,  "I've  got  to  engage  a 
singer." 

••  What  on  earth  for  ?  "  gasped  Murray—"  going 
to  give  a  series  of  concerts  ?— or  what  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  the  other  replied  calmly.    "  But 
the  fact  remains  that  I'--  got  to  engage  a  singer. 
I'm  going  out~I  thought  I  told  you  yesterday—to 
conduct  a  series  of  evangelistic  meetings.     A  cam- 
paign, we  call  it;  there  are  ten  or  twelve  similarly 
engaged  all  over  the  Kootenay— at  Fernie  and  Grand 
Forks  and  Fort  Steele  and  Moyie  and  Nelson,  and 
several  other  places.     Well,  each  preacher— minister, 
I  should  say,"  amended  the  late  lecturer  on  Ecclesi- 
astical PoUty--"has  a  singer  with  him.     You  can 
imagine  how  greatly  the  success  of  such  meetings 
will  depend  upon  a  singer.     Now,  the  man  who  was 
to  have  accompanied  nie-.he  should  have  joined  me 
at    Indian    Head— is   down   with   pneumonia.     No 
doubt  that  kind  of  work  is  hard  on  the  lungs,"  the 
'-)  ctor  threw  in  parenthetically  and  sympathetically ; 
"     .d  the  Committee  authorized  me  to  fill  his  place 
as  best  I  could.     Here  are  their  orders,"  as  he  pro- 
duced the  telegram  from  his  pocket;  "and,  Mr.  Mc- 
Lean—you're the  man !    You're  the  man,  Mr.  Mc- 


i*^-m^BiW(titsm^S:^ 


70    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Lean,"  he  repeated  fervidly,  rising  as  he  spoke  and 
laying  his  hand  on  Murray's  shoulder. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  You  don't  mean 
you  want  me  to  help  you  in  your— in  your  religious 
meetings,  do  you?"  came  from  the  hps  of  the 
younger  man.  "You  don't  mean  for  me  to— to 
sing  hymns,  sir?"  gazing  with  amazement  at  the 
other. 

"  That's  it  exactly,"  the  minister  replied  immedi- 
ately; "to  conduct  the  musical  part  of  Uie  service, 
you  see— to  train  the  choir— and  to  sing  solos  at  the 
meetings.  These  all  have  their  place,  Mr.  McLean, 
in  the  great  work.  And  you're  the  man— you're  the 
very  man— that  can  make  the  thing  a  success." 

"But  you  don't  understand,  Mr.  Seymour— Dr. 
Seymour,"  he  corrected—"  who  I  am ;  or  else  you 
wouldn't  suggest  anything  of  the  kind.  I'm  not 
looking  for  that  kind  of  a  job." 

"  You  might  do  much  worse,"  pursued  the  older 
man.  "  Of  course  I'm  not  exactly  sure  what  the 
Committee  pays— but  I  don't  think  it  would  be  less 
than  twenty  dollars  a  week,  perhaps  twenty-five. 
In  fact,  sir,  I  would  almost  feel  prepared  to  guaran- 
tee you  the  latter  amount— I  know  the  people  would 
be  so  inspired  by  your  services  that  they  would  will- 
ingly make  up  the  difference.    And  besides " 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Murray ;  "  do  you 


"/t    KIND  of  a   SPORT"  71 

mean   that   I   should  sing  the— the   Gospel— for  a 
weekly  wage  ?  " 

"  Exactly—precisely  so,  Mr.  McLean." 
"  I'd  starve  first,"  broke  out  Murray,  very  red  in 
the  face. 

*' Why  so?"  remonstrated  the  minister,  also 
slifihtly  rubicund  ;  '•  you  know  the  labourer  is  worthy 
of  his  hire." 

"I'm  no  labourer,"  retorted  Murray,  picking  a 
piece  of  orange  peel  from  the  window  sill  and  Hmg- 
ing  it  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  car  with  savage 
violence,  narrowly  missing  a  bald-headed  immigrant 
who  was  gazing  the  other  way  but  trying  hard  never- 
theless to  follow  the  dialogue  across  the  aisle. 

••  Well,  we  needn't  waste  words  about  that."  Dr. 
Seymour  returned  blandly;  '•  if  you  prefer  it,  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  you  giving  your  services  gratui- 
tously. But  it's  borne  in  on  me,  it's  borne  in  on  me, 
sir.  that  nothing  else  but  a  kind  Providence  has 
brought  all  this  to  pass—it's  an  open  door,  Mr. 
McLean ;  it's  an  open  door,  I  say." 

Murray  pondered  a  moment.  Then  he  looked  up 
firmly  at  the  clergyman.  "  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  be 
so  strong  on  this  providence  theory,  if  I  told  you 
something,"  he  began  slowly.  "  Sit  down,  Dr.  Sey- 
mour." for  the  minister  was  still  standing ;  "  sit  down 
— and  let  me  tell  you  about  myself." 


i^'^ 


I 


ifvil 


V- 


72    The  SINGER  0/  The  KOOTEf^/iY 

The  Reverend  Armitage  gathered  up  his  coat  tails 
— tlic  worldly  dressing  jacket  had  been  discarded 
before  he  left  his  car — and  took  his  place  beside  the 
young  man.  "  I'll  be  glad  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say,"  he  murmured,  looking  straight  ahead  of 
him. 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  been  a  student  at  Queen's  College 
— probably  I  told  you  that." 

Dr.  Seymour  nodded. 

"  And  I've  left  college— for  good." 

The  Doctor  nodded  again. 

"  I  left  it  with  the  consent  of  the  faculty." 

"  Exactly ;  very  properly." 

Murray  was  smiling  bitterly.  "And  by  the  re- 
quest of  the  Senate." 

•'  Oh,  no — bless  my  soul ! "  broke  in  the  dignified 
but  startled  divine. 

"  Exactly  so,"  Murray  went  on  calmly ;  "  they  were 
unanimous  about  it — enthusiastic,  I  believe." 

Dr.  Seymour  tugged  violently  at  his  peaked  cap. 
"  Well,  suppose  you  did,"  he  broke  in  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence — "  and  suppose  they  were  ;  that's  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  help  in  the  singing.  It's 
quite  different  from  the  case  of  a  minister — he's  regu- 
larly ordained  and  set  apart,  you  see — I've  got  a 
book  on  that  very  subject  back  in  the  Pullman. 
But   a   singer    -he's  quite  dififerent— he   hasn't  any 


t^  A, 


W    KIND  of  a   SPORT' 


73 


vows  on  him.     And  any  mere  layman  may  make  a 
mistake ;  and,  besides " 

••Wait  a  minute,"  Murray  broke  in— •«  there's 
more.  I  have  been  quite — quite— well,  quite  a 
sport.  Dr.  Seymour." 

"  Perfectly  proper,"  broke  out  the  minister ;  "  every 
true  man  ought  to  be.  Look  at  me — I  used  to  pLiy 
cricket  when  I  was  young.  And  I  have  a  set  d 
carpet  balls  back  in  my  manse  this  very  minute,  s.  •. 
Oh,  yes,  every  true  man  should  have  something  ot 
the  sport  in  him— I'm  a  kind  of  sport  myself,  Mr. 
McLean." 

Murray  snorted,  all  efforts  to  the  contrary  unavail- 
ing. Whereat  the  Reverend  Armitage  cast  a  swift 
glance  at  him,  mystified  by  the  unseemly  merriment. 

"  Excuse  me.  Dr.  Seymour,"  he  apologized,  strug- 
gling with  a  wayward  pair  of  lips ; "  but  I  didn't  mean 
that  exactly.  Of  course  I've  played  all  sorts  of  games 
myself— even  billiards,  and  things  like  that,"  glancing 
cautiously  at  the  ecclesiastic  as  he  spoke;  "  and  I  can 
curl  like  a  white-head— I  was  tankard  skip  at  Queen's. 
But  what  I  meant  by  a  sport  was  different.  I  mean, 
Dr.  Seymour,  I  mean  that  I've— well— I've  kind  of 
gone  the  pace.  Sometimes  the  company  was  rather 
swift  for  me — nothing  very  bad,  you  know — but  once 
or  twice  I'm  afraid  I  took  too  much.  And  sometimes 
I  used—used  language,  so  to  speak ;  you  heard  me 


\^ 


74    Tfte  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
yesterday   .vhen   I  was-vvas  reasoning-with  that 
bulJy  on  the  train.     Lots  ol  things  like  that.  I  mean, 
sir-so  I  couldn't  ever  take  part  in  your  meetings, 
you  understand." 

The   Doctor  turned  and   indulged  a  long  look 
at  h.s  companion.     Whether  it  was  the  charm  of 
the  frank  and  earnest  face,  or  the  candour  of  his 
autobiography,  or  the   Doctor  s  own  need  of  the 
assistance  he  was  seeking,  may  not  be  told.     Rut 
there  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  taken  a  pronounced 
and    hearty    hking    to    his    travelling    companion. 
Wherefore,  with  all  apparent  good-will,  he  proceeded 
to  exhaustive  argument,  plying  every  consideration 
that  might  alter  the  attitude  of  the  young  man  be- 
side him.     Let  bygones  be  bygones,  he  urged  ;  why 
not  begin  afresh  in  this  new  and  distant  land?    Be- 
sides, this  very  decision  would  help  him  to  break 
with  the  past  in  the  most  decisive  way;  rhe  evident 
need  and  opportunity,  moreover,  constituted  a  call 
he  could  not  lightly  set  aside. 

"  Even  U  you  have  heretofore  led  a  vicious  hfe  " 
he  pressed,  "  that's  no  reason  why  things  shouldn't  be 
different  now." 

"  Excuse  me,"  Murray  broke  in  hotly ;  -  that's  a 
beastly  ugly  word,  sir-and  it  doesn't  fit.  I  want  you 
to  undemand.  I've  made  my  mistake..  I  know-> 
and  hit  the  trail  a  little  sometimes.     But  I  was  never 


IP! 


t^smm: 


"^    KIND   of  a    SPORT-  75 

*  vicious/  sir-and  111  thank  you  to  remember  that. 
I  could  always  go  home  and  kiss  my  mother  with 
lips  just  as  pure  as  yours,  sir— and  I  think  you've  got 

your  nerve  with  you,  sir,  to " 

Whereat  Dr.  Seymour  hastened  to  apologize,  his 
pace  none  tlie  slower  because  of  the  ominous  red  that 
kept  coming  and  going  in  a  very  significant  way  in 
Murray's  cheek,  his  lips,  too,  quivering  with  an  emo- 
tion that  foreshadowed  danger;  an  unfortunate 
word  merely,  the  Doctor  assured  him.  a  slip  of  the 
tongue,  and  would  he  please  forget  that  it  had  ever 
been  used?  To  which  the  warm-hearted  Murray 
was  by  no  means  slow  to  assent. 

"Although,  of  course."  the  Doctor  continued 
cautiously,  "you'd  have  to  be  careful,  if  you  were 
helping  in  the  meetings,  about  any—any  irregularity 
01  language,  so  to  speak.  It  might  be  raisunder- 
stood,  you  know." 

"  ^^'  it  might,"  agreed  Murray  McLean.  With 
which  he  begged  the  importunate  Doctor  to  say  no 
more  about  the  matter  he  had  so  eagerly  presented. 
In  consequence  of  which  the  clergyman  gradually 
resigned  himself  to  conversation  along  general  lines, 
and  before  very  long  bade  his  companion  farewell, 
rising  to  make  his  way  back  again  to  his  car. 

"  I  hope  we'll  meet  ir.  Rockcliffe,  in  any  case,"  he 
said  as  he  shook  hands  heartily;  "  I've  still  got  a 


•"^i 


76    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

kind  of  feeling  that  we  will  see  more  of  each  other- 
dear  me,  what  will  do  without  some  one  to  help 
in  the  singing?  "  wherewith,  disconsolate  anew,  he 
hurried  back  to  the  more  congenial  surroundings  of 
the  Pullman  car. 

"  Maybe  I'll  drop  in  at  the  meetings  anyhow," 
Murray  called  after  him  as  he  went  down  the  aisle. 
And  the  Reverend  Armitage  nodded  his  head  com- 
placently, as  if  to  say  it  would  indeed  be  strange 
should  he  forego  the  privilege. 


':  y^.  "*•■  JJd^lV 


VI 

^    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE 

THE  Ludlow  family  were  at  breakfast. 
This,  in  itself,  may  seem  a  declar?tion 
tame  and  unimportant.  But  before  com- 
ing to  a  conclusion  so  despondent  it  is  necessary  to 
ascertain  three  things—first,  where  the  Ludlow  family 
breakfasted ;  second,  what  the  Ludlow  family  were 
breakfasting  upon;  third,  zi;ho  the  Ludlow  family 
were. 

First.     The  Ludlow  family  were  breakfasting  in 

British    Columbia;    to    be    more    rxplicit,    in    the 

Kootenay ;  to  be  still  more  explicit,  in  this  selfsame 

town  of  Rockclifife  already  introduced.     To  locate 

the  spot  still  more  exactly,  the  Ludlow  family  were 

breakfasting  in  what  might  be  called  the  sun  room 

of  a  very  imposing  mansion,  as  Western  mansions  go. 

beautifully  situated  on  a  rising  slope  that  led  to  the 

mountainside.     The  house,  stone    half-way  up  and 

pine  the   rest   of  the   way,  resemblmg  in  this  the 

hills  that  surrounded  it,    was    large   and   imposing, 

abounding  in  spacious  fireplaces  and   enriched   by 

several  bay  windows  that  commanded  views  of  sur- 

77 


r  ft.-  - 

I  km. 
m 


78    The  SINGER,  of  The  KOOTENAY 

passing  beauty.    A  park  of  generous  proportioni,,  the 
rolling  acres  richly  wooded,  lay  between  it  and  the 
mountain's  base.     Everything  in  and  about  the  stately 
house  was  suggestive  of  plenteous  means.     And  on 
this  particular  morning,  gathered  about  tlieir  break- 
fast table,  the  Ludlow  family  might  well  have  reckoned 
themselves  among  the  richest  heritors  of  heaven ;  for 
the  bluest  of  blue  skies  was  above  them,  from  which 
the  sun  shone  benignantly  on  all  the  glowing  scene ; 
and  on  every  hand  towered  those  mighty  mountains 
that  lead  the  soul  to  the  Eternal ;  and  the  emban- 
nered  pines  swayed,  with  fascinating  rhythm,  in  the 
autumn   breeze;    and  here  and  there  a  gleaming 
stream,  its   tumult   quite   inaudible,  leaped  in  the 
morning    light    and    lent   animation  to  the   noble 
prospect.     While,  crowning  and  guarding  all,  king 
of  these  mountain   kings.  Old   Observation    reared 
his    hoary  head  to  the  sky   and  brooded    in    si- 
lent   benediction    over    all    the    kingdom    at    his 
feet. 

Second.  The  Ludlow  family  were  breakfasting  on 
the  fat  of  the  land.  Which  is  saying  a  great  deal ; 
for  this  was  a  pioneer  land— and  nowhere  else  can 
real  originality  of  breakfastdom  be  found.  Every- 
body knows  that  breakfast  is  a  painfully  monotonous 
meal.  Whether  it  be  the  porridge  of  the  Scotch  or  the 
bacon  of  the  Enghsh  or  the  honey  of  the  Swiss  or  the 


A  PARENTAL  DIALOGUE  79 
fish  of  the  Nova  Scotian  or  the  pumpkin  pie  of  the 
New  Englander.  all  attest  the  deadly  monotony  of 
breakfast,  tlie  perilous  tendency  of  every  nation  and 
tribe  and  tongue  to  fall  into  a  rut  and  grovel  there 
to  latest  generations.  But,  in  new  countries,  break- 
fast blossoms  into  something  new_or  into  a  happy 
combination  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  old  (which 
IS  probably  a  correct  descripUon  of  all  new  Uiings 
worthy  to  be  prized). 

Wherefore,  this  bright  autumn  morning,  the  Lud- 
low   family   were   enjoying  a  breakfast  over  which 
kings  might  have  hngered.     Cereals  they  had,  mostly 
from   the  rich  soil   of    these  surrounding  valleys; 
bacon  from  their  own  premises,  and  tlieir  own  curing  \ 
eggs   of  their  own  laying,  so  to  speak-they  had 
heard  the  cncackled  joy  which  had  marked  the  advent 
of  every  one;  a  couple  of  ducks  that  Mr.  Ludlow's 
gun  had  invited  to  share  tlie  family  meal;  and-most 
delicious  of  all-a  score  of  tiny  speckled  mountain 
trout  that  only  an  hour  before  had  been  flashin-  in 
the  stream.    All  of  these_to  say  nothing  of  hot  rolls 
and  coffee  whose  aroma  could  be  detected  half-way 
down  the  valley,  and  to  take  no  account  of  appetites 
such  as  only  the  mountain  air  provokes-made  the 
Ludlow  breakfast  more  like  a  banquet  than  a  mere 
morning  meal. 

Third.     The  Ludlow  family,  let  it  be  frankly  con- 


80    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

ceded  at  the  outset,  was  not  an  old  family.  This 
information  is  melancholy,  but  inevitable ;  no  true 
author  can  admit,  without  some  sense  of  shame,  that 
one  of  his  leading  families  is  really  not  old. 

Since  all  families,  like  all  Gaul,  are  divided  into  three 
kinds :  those  who  are  actually  and  defiantly  old,  those 
who  are  painfully  and  abashedly  not  old  (there  are  no 
:young  families,   even  among  the  not  old),  and  those 
who  are  determined,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  be  pre- 
maturely old ;  and  since,  further,  the  whole  classifica- 
tion is  liable  to  be  upset  by  some  fiend  who  reckons, 
and  can  actually  prove,  that  one  family  is  as  old  as 
another,  that  is,  if  they  have  been  decent  people— con- 
sidering all  these  things,  I  say,  it  is  a  pretty  come- 
ashore  when  a  family  has  to  be  introduced  and  baldly 
branded  as  otherwise  than  old,  to  use  as  pleasant  a 
term  as  the  most  friendly  heart  can  forge.     Of  course, 
if  a  story  were  pure  fiction,  chen  the  most  mode-n 
family  could  be  endowed  with  age  in  the  twinkling  of 
a  pen ;  but  when,  as  here,  it  is  the  humble  narrative  of 
things  as  they  actually  were,  then  the  family  must  be  de- 
scribed as  it  actually  was,  however  callow  that  may  be. 
No,  the  Ludlow  family  was  not  old !    To  prove  the 
impeachment,  one  only  required  to  ask  any  of  the 
neighbours,  especially  the  poorer  neighbours.     And 
the  least  venomed  of  them  would  tell  you  that  the  pres- 
ent head  of  the  Ludlow  family,  Simon  by  name  and  a 


>/    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE         8i 
man  of  worthy  soul,  had  once  been  a  tanner— Hke 
his  illustrious  namesake  of  the  Scriptures ;  and  fur- 
ther, that  he  had  borne  the  look,  the  manner,  even  the 
odour,  which  marked  that  worthy  but  unromantic  oc- 
cupation.    Some— and  these  were  only  less  rich  than 
Simon— would  declare  that  he  bore  them  yet;  but 
that  was  the  voice  of  envy.     Besides,  to  ensure  the 
perpetual    youth  of  this   unfortunate   family,  they 
would  inform  you  that  Simon's  father  had  been  a 
blacksmith  in  New  Brunswick,  and  Simon's  wife  had 
been  a  dairymaid,  and  Simon's  wife's  father  had  been 
a  milk  man,  and  Simon's  wife's  mother  had  often  lain 
sick  of  a  housemaid's  knee— not  the  academic  and 
polite  variety,  but  the  original  and  genuine  kind  that 
was  not  contracted  by  luxurious  living  but  by  faithful 
devotion  to  tlie  kitchen  floor  and  the  back  verandah, 
armed  with  nothing  but  the  family  scrubbing  brush. 
Wherefore  the  Ludlow  family,  now  seated  at  their 
breakfast,  was  incurably  tainted  with  what  had  best 
be  called  the  lack  of  age.     They  were  rich,  very  rich. 
A  fortunate  opening  to  the  •<  ground  floor  "  of  a  coal 
mine,  of  which  Mr.  Simon  LudJow  had  not  been  slow 
to  avail  himself,  together  with  a  thrice  lucky  invest- 
ment in  British  Columbia  timber  limits,  had  achieved 
all  that.     And  they  had  all  that  wealth  could  reason- 
ably provide ;  Mrs.  Simon  Ludlow  had  attended  to 
all  that,  heedless  of  Simon's  tears  and  cries.    But  all 


S2    The  SINGBR  Of  7he  K007ENAY 
this  was  powerless  to  produce  the  aroma  of  antiquity, 
so  long  as  the  accursed  odour  of  a  tannery  lingered 
about    Simon's    history.     The    clothes    which    the 
honest  man  had  worn  in  those  disgraceful  days  had 
been    long  since  burned,  odour  and  all— but  alas! 
what  fiame  can  consume  a  history  or  purge  it  of  its 
shame  ?    Wherefore,  however  corMmwus  tlie  Ludlow 
family  had  been;  and  no  matter  during  how  many 
hundreds  of  years  its  members,  in  legitimate  succes- 
s.on.  may    have  plied  knives  and  shears,  or  ham. 
mercd  the  anvil,  or  carried  the  foaming  pail,  or  rung 
the  milk  bell  on  the  street,  or  brandished  the  drip- 
ping  scrubbing  brush-despite  all  this  obvious  an- 
tiquity, this  one  time  Unning.  hammering,  milking, 
scrubbing  family  was  doomed  never  to  be  old. 

The  Ludlow  family,  as  might  be  expected  when 
one  considers  all  that  surrounded  them  and  all  they 
were  busy  in  surrounding,  were  engaged  in  animated 
conversation  as  the  morning  meal  went  on.     It  is 
doubtful  if  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Ludlow  had  ever  heard 
that  It  is  beneficial  to  talk  while  eating ;  but.  enjoy- 
ing both  industries  and  finding  them  practicable  to- 
gether,  they  seldom  had  much  of  the  one  without  the 
other. 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Ludlow  was  saying  as  he  passed  his 
cup  for  the  third  time,  "  I'm  incUned  to  agree  with 
your  mother." 


A    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE        8j 

"  I  should  think  to,"  his  spouse  hastened  to  inter- 
ject ;  "  who  would  you  agree  with  if  it  wasn't  with 
me?  You'll  have  scales  on  you,  Simon,  if  you  eat 
any  more  of  those  trout,"  she  threw  in  parenthetic- 
ally. 

"  I  caught  'em,  mother,"  her  husband  suggested 
humbly,  still  furtively  fishin;^:y  in  the  platter. 

••  That's  nothing  -you  often  shot  a  moose,  didn't 
you?  "she  retorted,  the  weight  of  argument  in  the 
glance.  "  But  as  I  was  saying,  of  course  you  agree 
with  me,"  the  tone  indicating  that  anything  else 
would  be  absurd  on  the  face  of  it.  "  And  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  meetings  of  that  kind  are  no 
place  for  a  daughter  of  ours  to  be  going  to." 

"  No  doubt,  the  meetings  are  all  right— that  is.  to 
a  certain  extent,"  Mr.  Ludlow  ventured  to  remark, 
malcing  free  with  still  another  trout. 

"  Humph  .'—special  meetings — revival  meetings- 
evangelistic  services  ! "  sniffed  Mrs.  Ludlow,  decapi- 
tating an  egg  as  though  it  were  the  revivalist  him- 
self ;  "  I  never  did  believe  in  such  goings  on.  Noth- 
ing but  a  lot  of  emotional  excitement— emotional 
excitement,"  she  repeated,  by  no  means  ill  pleased 
with  the  ample  phrase;  "  and  th  I's  the  very  worst 
kind."  she  elaborated.  "  And  I  say  if  Hilda  there." 
nodding  towards  her  daughter,  "if  she  wants  to  be 
religious,  let  her  be  religious  in  the  regular  way.     I 


84    TAe  SINGER  of  The  KOO  TEN  A  Y 
believe  relig,„„..  ,ik.  „,h,,  ,hi„B,_y<,„  .,,<,„„ 
your  o«,„  kmd  and  then  stick  to  it.    I  s..ck  to  my 

6oc„    »he,v.„.o„.„„5,,„,,„,„^,  ;      » 

"and    w„y  shouldn't  a  person  stick  to  thtir  oL 
pr-^her-the.    o.n     c,e,yman.    ,    mean."    she 

vel'^'H"',""''  "'"'  "'"  ^"'"''  ""•"'"•"  M^-  Ludlow 
ventured.  h.s  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate 

;;  How,    U„ere?_„hatd.  you  mean,  Simon," 
you  know    that-an'  the,,   we  joined  the  Enjish 

b^d     'a     ;  r      '"«""■  ^"-'"ff  -y^eriousiy 

o<i>«.    he  went  on  „.,„  a  little  sigh  ,•  •■  they  were  far 
-ore  sentimentaller  than  the  English-an-  J  d  / 

r;ayThern::hr'"'"''"-''°-'-^' 

the  J,     t  ""''"  f"  '°^^'  ••'ownded  in 

mL  H         "  ""  '"' '"'  «  'h'  Creed.    Now  the 

state  n  <,      u  *""^  plaintively  to  describe  this 

«a.e  of  fl„^  by  a  little  wave  of  the  land. 

a.i.^rsCy"'.:::::'^""'"'''''^"""™'' 

'»  ■'o  With  t'h    case^weCr^"  "l  '"  "°*'"^ 
vival    me^,i„'..   .t         "=''"»"""g  about  these  re- 
al   raeet,„.   .heyre  having  i„   „„  P„,byteria„ 


^    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE        85 
Churc.     Besides,  we   didnt  leave  Uie  Methodists. 
exa..tly_it  wasn't  leaving   it  was  evolution,"  .he  af' 
firmed,  dwelling  a  little  proudly  on  the  word,  m- 
wardly  sure  she  knew  what  it  meant  and  equally  sure 
that  she  had  her  husband  beyond  his  depth.     •<  It  wa* 
natural  for  people  in  our  circle  to  join  the  KnRl.sh— 
all  our  friends  went  there-none  of  the  people  m  our 
station  ^vent  to  the  Methodist.     And  anybody  with 
good  sense  ought  to  be  able  to  find  the  place  you 
know  that,  Simon.     If  you'd  keep  those  blue  markers 
that  I  gave  you.  in  your  prayer-book,  you  wouldn't 
be  talking  so  ridiculous  i,i  front  oi"  Hilda."  and  Mrs 
Ludlo.v  pushed  back  her    olate.  resolved   to   bnng 
the    nieal    and   the  argun.nt  to   a   common   con- 
elusion. 

"  That's  all  right,"  her  spouse  murmured  feebly 
tramed  to  recognize  when  ;,c  had  had  enou-h  "  that 
is.toa  certain  extent-but  I  itillsay  the  Methodysare 
more  sentimentailer  than  the  English."  rolling  his 
napkin  extra  tight,  mild  token  that  he  too  had  a  nind 
of  his  own. 

"  Now .  Hilda,  you  see  your  father  agrees  uith  me 
exactly."  Mrs.  Ludlow  remarked  triumphantly  to  her 
daughter.  -  If  you  want  to  go  to  these  meetings 
just  out  of  curiosity,  why,  that's  sinful ;  and  if  you 
want  to  go  in  earnest,  well-well,  it's  no  place  for  a 
young   iady   of   your  station.      Always   remember 


m 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2) 


1^0    Ifos  IS 


I.I 


1.25 


1^  mil  2.8 

us. 

163 

!:  1^ 


14,0 


1.4 


23 
2.2 

2.0 


1.8 


1.6 


A  /APPLIED  IN/MGE     Inc 

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86    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

you're  a  Ludlow,  Hilda,"  as  she  fixed  a  very  proud 
pair  of  eyes  on  the  girl  across  the  table. 

And  very  well  worth  the  scrutiny  of  any  eyes 
whatever  was  this  same  maiden  whose  conduct  was 
the  subject  of  this  remarkable   discussion.     Hilda 
Ludlow   was   in    her    twentieth    year,  though    she 
looked  rather  older.     But  then  young  ladies  whose 
families  have  suddenly  risen  in  the  world  are  very 
prone  to  take  on  the  ways  of  womanhood  earlier 
than  they  would  otherwise  have  done.     They  have 
to  answer  the  sudden  challenge.     Her  face  indicated 
that  hers  was  a  thoughtful  nature,  for  the  brow  was 
broad  and  high,  even  if  the  sunny  hair  that  floated 
above  it  took  liberties  that  are  usually  reserved  for 
the  face  of  girlhood.     The  eyes  were  such  as  no  pen 
can  fittingly  describe;  hazel-brown,  so  far  as  that 
goes,  and  guarded  by  long  lashes  that  somehow  sug- 
gested tears,  of  joy  or  sorrow,  in  impartial  measure ; 
yet  tlie  dominant  note  in  the  wonderful  eyes  was  that 
of  life,  abounding  life,  with  all  its  collateral  tides  of 
strengtli  and  passion.     Nobody  at  all  gifted  with  in- 
sight could  have  looked  into  the  far  depths  of  Hilda 
Ludlow's  eyes  without  seeing  into  the  infinite.     A 
whole  cluster  of  possibilities  lay  there;   one  could 
have  seen  that  such  eyes  were  meant  to  dance  with 
merriment,  or  dissolve  with  grief,  or  melt  with  sym- 
pathy, or  flash  with  anger,  or  burn  deep,  like  un- 


A    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE        87 

blown  furnaces,  with  the  mystic  fire  of  consum- 
ing love— or  do  any  of  the  various  other  things 
that  make  such  eyes  the  mirror,  veiled  though 
it  be,  of  all  the  world  within,  the  spiritual  world,  that 
sacred  realm  whose  forces  set  a  woman's  breast 
aheaving  or  tell  the  story  of  their  passion  through 
these  wondrous  windows  of  the  soul. 

Yes,  the  face  of  Hilda  Ludlow  was  essentially  a 
spiritual  face,  and  that  is  about  all  one  can  say  of  it. 
It  was  a  face  full  of  sympathy,  brightness,  tenderness  ; 
perhaps  compassion  was  its  foremost  feature ;  a  face 
in  which  goodness  and  beauty  meet.  Complexion 
clear  and  pure,  not  rosy  and  yet  not  pale,  the  colour 
tapering— if  one  may  use  the  term— in  fitting 
modulation  till  it  left  the  shapely  ear  in  the  most 
witching  shade  of  pink;  the  nose  straight  and 
delicate,  if  perhaps  the  least  bit  large ;  the  lips  thin, 
firm,  mobile  almost  to  nervousness,  sensitively  pure  ; 
the  chin  absolutely  feminine— and  th?t  is  the  highest 
eulogy  of  a  woman's  chin,  although  th-  thoughtless 
do  not  know  it ;  the  neck  white  and  shapely,  sloping 
down  to  a  pair  of  substantial  shoulders  whose 
athletic  pose  accorded  well  with  the  tall,  firm  figure 
that  plenty  of  exercise  and  abundance  of  out-of-doors 
had  nurtured  into  strength  and  gracefulness. 

The  girl  had  been— as  indeed  =lie  often  was  com- 
pelled to  be— an  all  but  silent  listener  to  the  con- 


'■i'tt^l?.:. 


,^l,^: 


88  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
versation  her  parents  had  carried  on.  Perhaps  such 
oft-repeated  conversations  had  something  to  do  with 
the  -ather  plaintive  expression  that  marked  Hilda's 
face  when  in  repose.  Probably  no  more  chastening 
influence  can  cloud  a  young  girl's  life  that  this— to 
be  compelled  to  listen  to  parental  dialogues  that 
have  about  them  a  more  or  less  wintry  tang. 

She  looked  up  just  as  her  father  left  the  room. 
"  Well,  mother,"  she  began,  "  I'm  not  particularly  set 
on  going  to  those  meetings— but  still  I  want  to  go. 
At  least,"  and  she  leaned  back  yawning  as  she  spoke, 
"  I  want  to  see  what  they're  like." 

"  Why,  my  child  ?  "  her  mother  demanded—"  surely 
you've  got  quite  enough  in  your  life  now  to  keep 
you  interested." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders ;  and  the  strong 
soulful  face  was  suddenly  overswept  with  a  wave  of 
emotion.  Of  such  a  sort  it  was  that  the  mother,  had 
hers  been  the  discerning  eye,  would  have  read  a 
warning  there— and  have  tried  no  more  to  stem  a 
tide  so  deep  and  strong. 

"  I'm  sick  of  this  kind  of  life,"  the  girl  suddenly 
broke  out  vehemently. 

"  Hilda ! "  exclaimed  her  mother  with  uplifted  eye- 
brows; "how  can  you?_it's  wicked,  my  child,  it's 
positively  wicked  of  you  to  speak  like  that.  You  I 
with  all  that  money  can  do  for  you,  with  a  kind 


A    PAHENTAL    DIALOGUE 


89 


father  and  mother— with  your  education !  And  there 
isn't  a  girl  in  British  Columbia  with  a  better—a 
better  social  station  than  you  have.  I'm  surprised 
at  you,  Hilda,"  she  concluded  reproachfully. 

The  girl  laughed.  "Station!"  she  echoed;  "I 
often  wonder  what  that  word  means— I  don't  be- 
lieve there's  any  such  thing.  People  only  have  so 
much  station  as  they  win— and  they  have  to  win  it 
for  themselves.  But  anyhow,"  she  resumed,  the 
voice  taking  a  serious  turn, "  I  often  wonder  how 
long  I'm  going  to  go  on  with  this  old  life;  eating, 
sleeping,  reading  a  little,  riding  sometimes,  going  to 
a  party  now  and  again— and  Bridge,  everlasting 
Bridge,"  she  exploded  almost  violently,  "  it  seems  to 
me  it's  Bridge  externally,  internally,  and  eternally 
these  days.  If  I  could  get  hold  of  the  fiend  who  in- 
vented it— I'd  throttle  him,"  the  dainty  hands  going 
through  the  murderous  motion  on  the  imaginar/ 
neck  of  this  benefactor  of  mankind. 

"  Don't  get  impatient,  my  child,"  her  mother  re- 
monstrated ;  "  you'll  have  lots  of  the  serious  side 
n  enough— when  you  get  Monty— and  a  house 
of  your  own— and  two  or  three  of  the  conse- 
quences, with  about  two  years  between  them,  I 
guess  you'll " 

"  Hush !  "  the  girl  cried,  her  face  aflame,  giving  an 
imperious  little  stamp  of  her  foot.     •«  I  won't  listen  to 


90    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
that  kind  of  thing.     I  ^von't  have  any  Monty-as 
you  call  him-or  any  house;  nor  any-anything  else 
that  you  have  in  mind,  unless  I  want  to,"  her  face 
cnmson.    -  You    and    father  seem  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  I'm  to  marry  Mr.  Holmes,  whether  I 
want  to  or  not.    And  he  seems  to  take  it  for  granted 
too.    And  I'm  a  fool_I  know  that  all  right     Just 
a  weak,  silly,   cowardly  country  girl,  that  doesn't 
know  anything  except  how  to  play  the  piano  and  try 
to  draw  Gibson  girls-with  poodle  dogs."  she  added 
contemptuously,  "and  go  to  teas,  and  give  them  to 
others-and  order  pretty  clothes  from  Spokane;  and 
then  play  Bridge  with  a  lot  of  girls  and  men  that 
haven  t  got  a  thought-haven't  got  a  thought  above 
cool  drinks."  she  concluded,  the  April  nature  of  the 
girl  showing  itself  as  the  already  tear-stained  eyes 
now  abrim  with  scornful  mirth,  were  hidden  in  the' 
dimpled  hands  as  she  bent  over  the  table.    "  Oh  "  she 
moaned  in  mock  misery.  -  it's  a  cruel,  cruel  fite  to 
have  a  rich  father-there  ought  to  be  a  law  against 
rich  fathers;  it  takes  things  th^^  might  be  women 
and  changes  them  into  a  bunch  of  pretty  clothes  and 
ostnch  feathers."  the  musical  peal  gurghng  out  from 
between  tne  half-spread  fingers. 

Her  mother  was  about  to  make  some  reply,  though. 

to  tell  the  truth,  she  required  just  a  little  time  to  re- 
cover from  th,s  sudden  gust  that  had  rather  swept 


A    PARENTAL    DIALOGUE        91 

her  off  her  feet.  She  was  one  of  those  unhappy 
mothers,  unhappiest  of  all,  whose  daughters  are  above 
them  by  the  act  of  God ;  whose  whole  lives  are  spent 
in  trying  to  replace  a  child's  nobler  ideal  with  the 
lower  ambition  of  their  own. 

Just  as  Mrs.  Ludlow  was  beginning  to  speak,  a  serv- 
ant entered  from  the  hall  «•  Mr.  Holmes  is  at  the 
door,"  the  maid  announced  ;  "  shall  I  show  him  in  ? " 

Whereat  Mrs.  Ludlow  threw  her  speech  to  the 
winds ;  and  her  enthusiasm  was  pronounced  as  she 
bade  the  servant  produce  the  visitor  at  once.  Cordial, 
even  effusive,  was  the  welcome  of  the  older  woman ; 
but  more  than  usual  reserve  marked  Hilda's  attitude 
as  the  caller  entered  the  room. 


J 
mi 

'•mi    '% 
\%    I 


m 


VII 
BRIDGE   AND   REyi^/tL 

THE    visitor    was   Mr.    Montague    Holmes. 
.  Englishman.     This  last  word,  to  all  fanuliar 
with  western  Canadian  hfe.  denotes  a  type 
To  tins  type  in  its  more  polished  form-socially  ai 
least-belonged   Mr.  Montague   Holmes.     Tall  and 
handsome,  with  that  nameless  air  of  swinging  ath- 
letic strength  that  only  the  true  Englishman  seems  to 
develop  to  .ts  highest  point,  his  uas  a  figure  to  at- 
tract    attention.     H,s    face    was   marked   by  those 
reserved,  almost  sullen,  signs  of  strength  that  so  often 
are    seen   in  the    colonial    Englisbman-a  sort    of 
patromzing  air.  not  far  removed  from  contempt.    For 
he  young  Englishman  abroad  can  rarely  rid  himself  of 
the  feehng  that  he  is  among  his  inferiors  ;  especially 
•f  he  have  any  pride  of  birth-or  has  acquired  any. 

Yet  belund  all  this  hauteur  that  sat  so  naturally  on 
the  face  of  Mr.  Montague  Holmes  there  might  have 
been  decerned  the  traces  of  a  youth  in  which 
coarser  passions  had  been  allowed  their  way  His 
was  one  of  those  faces,  not  rarely  to  be  seen,  in  which 
the  refinement  of  generations  holds  its  ground  as  best 
>t  may  against   the  encroachment  of  those  grosser 

02 


BRIDGE   AND   KE^iyAL  93 

shades  that  wantonness  of  life  so  easily  begets.  There 
was  much  about  him  to  appeal  to  a  woman's  nature  ; 
the  manly  form  and  handsome  face,  and,  most  attrac- 
tive  of  all,  the  air  of  superiority,  of  familiarity  with  the 
world,  with  all  its  delicacies  and  refinements—this  it 
is  that  awakens  a  woman's  particular  interest,  espe- 
cially if  that  woman  sees  in  it  a  reflection  of  some  far- 
ofT  world  of  fashion  it  has  never  been  her  privilege  to 
enter. 

Such,  in  part  at  least,  was  the  explanation  of  the 
relation  in  which  Mr.  Holmes  stood  to  the  two 
women  into  whose  presence  he  had  just  been  ushered. 
And  perhaps  it  was  the  consciousness  of  this  that  ex- 
plained the  easy  air  of  familiarity,  almost  of  possession, 
w:th  which  he  turned  to  Hilda,  directing  most  of  his' 
fmarks  to  her. 

■  ■  .  ;  had  rather  bad  news  from  home,"  the  young 
i:.  '  'man  remarked  after  a  little  desultory  conver- 
-  -  'n;  "and  as  I  was  riding  pa^i— just  having  my 
morning  canter,  you  know— I  thought  I'd  drop  in 
and  tell  you." 

"  Indeed ! "  Hilda  was  the  first  to  say,  her  sympa- 
thies always  easy  to  be  roused,  "  nothing  the  matter 
with  your  folks,  I  hope,  Mr.  Holmes  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  to  tell  the  truth."  responded  the  visitor 
— "  only  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't '  Mr.  Holmes'  me,"  a 
a  slight  frown  on  his  face ;  "  surely  I  might  be  Monty 


J! 


.1 


>  i 


94    'The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
to  you  by  this  time,  Hilda-like  I  am  at  home.    Yes. 
it  does  concern  my  relatives;  my  father  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  while  hunting  when  he  was  a  guest  at 
a  house  party  at  Rusholme  Park-that's  the  country 

seat  of  the  Karl  of ,"  he  added,  speaking  as 

carelessly  as  he  could  and  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Hilda  uttered  some  expression  of  regret  and  sym- 
pathy. But  her  mother  was  almost  too  overcome  to 
speak,  the  mention  of  the  earl  and  the  country  seat, 
both  in  one  breath,  being  quite  too  much  for  her. 

"I  do  hope  :t  isn't  serious,"  H.Ida  said  after  a  pause 
her  eyes  on  her  mother-for  that  lady  was  distinctly 
pale. 

"Oh,  no,"  responded  the  aristocrat;  "only  a 
broken  collar-bone,  I  believe-and  a  sprained  ankle 

My   mother  said   that   Earl   and  his  valet 

helped  him  up-stairs  to  his  room-he'll  get  every 
care  there,  I'll  assure  you,"  and  the  complacent  Mr. 
Holmes  again  looked  out  of  the  window  as  tran- 
quilly as  though  he  and  his  ancestors  had  been 
borne  to  bed  by  earls  and  dukes  ever  since  beds 
and  noblemen  were  first  invented. 

"The  Earl  himself?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ludlow  her 
face  whiter  than  before^- with  his  own  hands?" 
her  voice  all  of  a  quiver. 

"Oh,  yes,"   the   visitor  replied   carelessly;  "oh 
that's  nothing-he's  quite  a  strong  man,  the  Earl,"' 


Ir,-    «-i-i  -lit.' 

^•:tv«    i   .-,.0.; 


BRIDGE   AND    R  E  ^  I  i^  A  L 


95 


utterly  unmoved  by  the  distinction.  Mrs.  Ludlow 
glanced  nervously  at  her  daughter  once  or  twice, 
hopeful  that  the  full  ir  port  of  the  incident  was  borne 
in  upon  her.  This,  thought  Mj-s.  Ludlow,  should 
surely  settle  everything. 

Just  then  she  heard  her  husband  tailing  her 
from  outside,  whereat  she  rose  and  left  the  room, 
leaving  Hilda  alone  with  her  suitor.  A  rather  un- 
usual silence,  broken  by  a  icw  irrelevant  remarks  on 
either  side,  followed  the  mother's  departure.  Mr. 
Holmes'  gaze  was  fixed  on  Hilda  in  an  aident, 
almost  passionate,  way;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
rose  and  went  over  beside  her. 

Her  eyes  fell  and  the  colour  came  and  went  in  the 
winsome  face  as  she  felt  his  eloquent  gaze  upon  her. 
There  was  something  strange  and  uncanny  in  the 
subtle  power  he  seemed  to  have  over  her,  drawing 
her  to  him  even  while  her  heart  secretly  recoiled. 
"  Hilda,"  he  began  at  last,  "  I  can  hardly  wait  for 
that  night  to  cor  -I've  never  looked  forward  so 
to  anything  in  all  my  life." 

"  Why— what  night  ?  "  she  asked  timidly,  her  eyes 
still  averted. 

"  You  know  wh  •,  my  dearest,"  he  responded,  the 
deep  English  voice  exquisitely  modulated  to  tender- 
ness, as  is  the  gift  of  str.yng  and  commanding  men  ; 
"you    know  why — sweetheart,"  venturing   on  the 


:*        i 


96    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
word  after  a  pause.    A  little  shudder  overran  her 
frame.    •'  Oh,  Hilda/'  he  went  on,  lu.  voice  rising. 
"  you  know  why-it's  then  were  to  appear  together 
—and  then  the  whole  world  will  know  what  I've 
u'on.     I'm   coming  for  you  sharp  at  eight-thirty, 
H.lda-and  you'll  have  on  your  prettiest  plumage-' 
and  you'll  be  the  sweetest  thing  in  all  the  Kootenays 
—and  everybody'll  know  you're  mine.     And  I'll  be 
prouder  than  any  courtier  m  Europe."  he  concluded, 
lus   hand   going  out  to  her.  timidly  touching  the 
trembling  form  as  he  drew  closer  and  closer. 
"  Where  ?  "  she  asked,  the  word  dying  on  her  lips. 
•' Where  ?_you  know  where.    At  Mrs.  Matson's 
Bridge  party,  of  course.     Why,  we're  going  together, 
aren't  we?  "  leaning  over  her  solicitously. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  And  they 
showed  the  admiration  she  felt  for  tl..  strong  and 
athletic  figure  and  the  handsome  face  on  which  they 
rested.  Yet,  too.  there  was  something  in  them  of 
misgiving,  of  deep  and  painful  wonder,  as  they 
seemed  to  pry  and  burrow  far  beneath-nonder- 
ing.  fearing,  doubting,  r  oping  for  the  inmost  soul, 
searching  the  elusive  past. 

"  I'm  not  going,"  she  suddenly  said,  her  lips  clos- 
ing firmly. 

"Not  going,  Hilda!"  he  broke  out;  "you're  try- 
ing  to  chaff  me.  my  child.     Why  wouldn't  you  go? 


»^ 


^^'§L  .-Ji«. 


BRIDGE  AND   RE^ll^AL  97 

Wasn't  it  agreed— didu  ^  your  motlicr  and  I  decide— 
that  this  was  to  be  tlie  way  we  Wv.e  to  give  people 
tlie  first  hint  ?  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dearest,"  he  went  on 
impulsively,  restraining  the  shade  of  anger  Uiat  gath- 
ered on  his  face,  "  how  long  c  you  ryoing  to  trifle 
with  me— and  badger  me— and  put  me  off?  You 
know  I've  gi  -iy  whole  heart,  my  whole  life,  to 
you.  You  k  w  \'.  V,'  I've  turned  my  back  on  every- 
body else— everybody,  anybody,  that  I  might  have 
had,"  he  went  on  with  some  embarrassment  "  lots 
of  girls  in  Englaad,  eirls  with  titles  and— and  every- 
thing like  that.  And  really,  Hilda,  it's  just  a  little 
more  than  my  family  pride  can  stand,  to  be  toyed 

with  and  bantered  and  treated  as  if " 

But  he  got  no  further.     Her  face  was  aflarr     now. 
her  eyes  flashing.    "  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Holmi       she 
broke  in  warmly ;  '<  I  know  I'm  only  a  Uttle  moun- 
tain maiden,  brought  up  in  the  wilds— but  I'm  tired 
of  having  your  grand  ladies,  your  duchesses  and 
countesses,  pitted  against  me.     I  never  asked  you  to 
give  any  of  Uiem  up,  Mr.  Holmes— no,  I  won't  call 
you  Monty ;  not  to-night,  anyway,"  smiling  in  the 
most   fascinating  way.    "But   I   won't   go   to  that 
Bridge  party  with  you  either—I'm  going  to  church 
that  night.     Yes,  I   am— I   tell  you  I'm  going  to 
church,"  she  repeated,  noticing  his  str-t  of  surprise 
and  look  of  incredulity. 


1^  V 


98    '^fte  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"To  church!"  he  echoed.  "What  for?-good 
Lord,  it  isn't  Lent,  is  it?  Where'U  you  go  to 
church  ?  " 

Hilda  looked  calmly  into  his  eyes,  holding  herself 
very  straight.     "  Im  going  to  those  meetings  that 
have  just  begun— those  evangelistic  meetings— that's 
where  I'm  going,  Mr.  Holmes." 

"  Good  Lord ! "  he  gasped,  "  what  are  you  going 
there  for  ?  " 

"  Going  to  see  what  they're  like."  she  returned 
placidly;  "to  see  what  they  do.  And  to  get  con- 
verted, perhaps." 

He  stared  at  her.  "  Do  you  know  what  they're 
about  ?  "  he  asked  as  soon  as  he  recovered  his  breath  ; 
"  do  you  know  who's  going  to  conduct  them  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  «  can't  say  I  do  ;  except  that 
they're  meant  to  convert  people-and  I  fancy  I  could 
stand  a  lot  of  that."     Then,  the  April  nature  of  the 
g«rl  again  in  evidence,  the  sweet,  grave  face  was 
turned  away  from  him.  a  peal  of  rippling  laughter 
peahng  from  the  parted  lips.     She  moved  over  to  the 
great  bay  window  and  stood  beside  a  spreading  palm, 
part  of  its  branches  overhanging  her.     He  followed  ' 
she  moved  farther  in,  seated  now  on  the  window' 
ledge,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.    And  a  moment 
later  her  frame  shook  with  the  sobs  she  seemed  pow- 
erless to  control. 


BRIDGE   AND   REViyAL  99 

He  stood  amazed,  half  indignant.  "  What  on 
earth's  the  matter,  dear  ?  "  he  demanded,  as  tenderly 
as  he  could.  "  Is  it  because  you're  going  to  be 
good  ?  "  stumbling  blindly. 

"  No,"  she  answered  in  a  savage  little  voice. 

"  Is  it — is  it  because  you're  not  going  to  play 
Bridge  any  more  ?  "  he  fumbled,  reverting  to  their 
previous  conversation. 

"  No,"  more  violently  than  before  ;  "  who  said  I 
was  going  to  do  anything  like  that  ?  I'm  going  to 
play  Bridge — to  play  anything— just  whenever  I  get 
ready.     So  there." 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  that,"  he  ejaculated  fervently, 
timidly  trying  to  touch  her.  "  I  was  afraid  it  might 
be  some  of  that  foolishness  they're  trying  to  work  up 
in  town  just  now.  Say,  Hilda,"  for  by  this  time  she 
was  looking  out  of  the  window  with  amazing  seren- 
ity, "  please  put  all  this  nonsense  out  of  your  head. 
I  can  tell  you  something  about  those  meetings  if  you 
like.  But  I  want  you  to  promise  me  first  that  you'll 
go  with  me  that  night  to  Matson's." 

By  this  time  she  was  looking  at  him  with  provok- 
ing calmness.  "  Tell  me  about  the  meetings,"  she 
demanded  serenely ;  "  and  never  mind  the  Bridge 
party." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  there  isn't  so  very  much  to  tell. 
Only  I've  seen  the  guy  that's  going  to  run  them." 


V 


I 


100    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

"  What  guy  ?  "    The  clear  eyes  looked  now  as  if 
no  storm  had  ever  swept  them. 

"  The  clerical  guy_if  that's  a  fitting  adjective  for 
the  dissenting  parson  that's  in  charge.     He's  staying 
at  the  Commercial  Hotel-and  I've  seen  him  round 
the  lobby.     You  know,  it  appears  that  Mr.  Garloch 
-the  regular  minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church- 
was  taken  ill  just  a  day  or  two  before  this  tramp 
preacher  came  on  the  scene,  and  had  to  leave  for  the 
Coast  to  recuperate.    WeU.  I  heard  thi.  new  cove- 
Dr.  Seymom-'s  his  name,  I  believc-pouring  out  his 
tale  of  woe  to  the  proprietor  of  the  Commercial  about 
having  to  run  the  whole  show  himself;  said  he  was 
even  deprived  of  a  singer  to  help  hi  m-it  seems  those 
fellows  usually  trot  a  warbler  round  with  them  for 
these  shows-and  how  he  had  to  undertake  a  whole 
month's  services,  he  caUed  it  a  campaign,  without 
either  resident  minister  or  regular  singer  to  help  boost 
things.    By  Jove.  I  never  heard  anything  funnier  than 
the  tale  of  woe  he  was  telling  to  the  landlord  down 
there—and  mine  host  was  waiting  till  tlie  Reverend 
Evangelist  got  out  of  the  way.  to  telephone  the  brew- 
cry  for  fifty  dozen  more  of  ale ;  he  said  afterwards  he 
was  afraid  things  would  run  dry  while  the  old  bloke 
wa5  bemoaning  his  fate  to  him.    I  told  Sipcs.  that's 
the  landlord,  that  I  could  give  him  a  singer  if  he 
wanted  one-by  Jove,  what  a  voice  that  fellow's  got !  " 


3~>  '"-'*»'     — Hs,"-  .     <ii  -'.■ 


>^^f^-%- ^"' 


BRIDGE  AND   REI^iyAL         loi 

"What  fellow,  Mr.  Holmes?"  Hilda  enquired, 
mystified. 

"  Curse  that  Holmes  business,"  returned  the  other 
warmly.  "I  won't  tell  you— unless  you  call  me 
Monty." 

"  What  fellow,  Monty?"  quick  as  a  flash. 

"  That's  better— you'll  soon  get  used  to  it.  Well, 
it's  a  young  chap  who  has  just  come  here  from  On- 
tario—landed the  same  day  as  this  parson  did,  I 
think  ;  same  train,  I  believe.  He  seems  to  be  in  hard 
luck — doesn't  know  anybody— didn't  have  anything 
to  do.  I  told  him  a  man  of  his  frame— he's  a  regu- 
lar stalwart— wouldn't  be  long  witliout  a  job.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  think  he  has  got  one  of  some  kind  or 
other— with  his  hands,  I  think.  But  anyhow,  he 
seems  discouraged,  all  out  of  sorts — most  fellows  in 
his  condition  would  hit  the  booze,  I  tell  you— and 
somehow  or  other  I've  got  a  kind  of  a  feeling  that 
the  chap  has  to  put  up  quite  a  fight  to  walk  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  himself.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there— what  I  was  coming  at  is  this,  that 
he's  got  one  of  the  finest  voices  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life.  His  room's  close  to  mine — and  sometimes  he 
falls  to  warbling,  and,  really,  the  ccve  has  a  voice 
that  would  make  a  sensation  anywhere — I've  heard 
worse  in  Covent  Garden.  So  I  told  Sipes  we'd  have 
to  fix  the  parson  up  with  this  young  chap Oh, 


'I 

h' 


\u 


iAii 


'02    THc  SINGER  of  Tke  K007ENAY 
it-s  funny,  th.  whole  thing's  more  fun  than  a  Sunday 

.houghtfully. ..  I  „ou.dn'.  go  ncartokindof  ashow 
•f  I  were  you.  Hilda.  I  ,hi„k  y„„.„  fi„<j  jj^  ^,^,_ 
ons  more  co„geuiai-I  know  /  wi„_3„<j  j,,„  ^^ 
heaven  .r  you're  there."  as  he  laid  one  hand  lightly 
on  tlic  sunlit  hair.  ' 

She  was  standing  again,  and  moving  out  ••  I'm 
going."  she  said,  shaking  her  head  defianUy  ..  I'„, 
going  to  see  this  disconsolate  parson  of  yours-and 
I  tlunk  your  stalwart  singer  might  do  worse  than  let 
you  turn  h,m  loose  at  the  meetings.  No.  no.  you 
«ean  t  argue  w.th  me."  as  he  tried  to  protest  anew  • 
•f  you  want  to  see  me  that  night  you'll  have  to' 
come  to  Church,"  moving  „„t  into  L  hal,  as  sll: 

Which  aforesaid  hall  had  abundant  shade,  and 

wih.f7/""*'"="'"^-«--    Amid 

heard,  Mrs.  Ludlow  still  discreetly  absent,  still  pon- 
dering the  nobilities  across  the  sea. 

"No."  Hilda's  voice  came  low;  ••  not  this  time- 
no,  not  yet. ' 

never  Te,"*''  ""'  "°"  '-'°  ^°"  ''»°"'  ""<<=■  y°"'ve 
dearest  .  7  ^"-^"^  "'^  "'>' "S"'.  y°u  know  it, 
dearest,    all  possible  tenderness  in  tl,e  deep  bass 


BRIDGE   AND   REyiVAL         103 

"  Not  yet,"  came  the  reply,  a  spice  of  merriment 
in  the  tone ;  "  that  may  be  the  way  with  duchesses 
and  countesses — but  Western  girls  have  to  learn  to 
deny  themselves,"  and  the  melodious  laughter  was 
still  rippling  as  Mr.  Montague  Holmes  went  down 
the  steps  to  remount  his  impatient  steed. 

But  as  Hilda  went  back  to  the  window-seat  the 
laughter  fled  her  lips  ;  almost  ashy  pale,  she  sat 
among  the  spreading  foliage,  pondering,  pondering 
still— afraid  of  him,  afraid  of  herself,  afraid  of  life. 


a» 


VIII 
■■CMNT  SHOOT  WITHOUT  A  REST" 

THE    Reverend    Armitage  Seymour  could 
hardly  wait  till  he  had  finished  dinner  at 
the  Commercial  Hotel.  Rockclifie,  the  day 
Of  h.a  arrival,  so  eager  wa,  he  to  go  out  and  look 
about  the  town.    A  bit  of  depressing  news  had  come 
o  h,m  Pt  the  very  outset,  for  he  had  been  met  at  the 
»lat,o„  w„h  ,he  melancholy  tidings  that  the  regular 
m,mster  of  the  church  in  which  his  meetings  we^  to 
He  held  had  a  day  or  two  previously  left  the  Sn 
It  «as  m  search  of  health  that  this  minister  had  fi^t 
been  attracted  to  his  pastorate  in  the  Kootenay ;  but 
at  th.  most  ill-timed  juncture,  he  had  been  sLd  of' 
a  sudden  hemorrhage  and  had  been  hastily  orde«d 
to  the  Coast     This  threw  the  entire  burden,  of 
course,    upon     -he     unfamiliar    shoulder,    of    the 
Reverend  Armitage;   and,  together  with  the  ab- 
,,  ""  "'  \  ''"S"'  '"ent  far  to  make  his  task  more 
than  ever  formidable  in  his  eyes 

While  waiting  for  dinner  to  be  served  he  em- 
ploy«I  himself  in  looking  over  a  little  pamp  "t 
"..tied  ..Hints  to  Missioners,"  with  which  he  hd 
bee     .rovided  by  the  Committee.    And  he  esptiat 


I*  ■ 


"CANT  SHOOT  WITHOUT  A  REST"    105 

laid  to  heart  the  injunction  that  great  diligence  was 
to  be  exercised  in  inviting  men  to  the  meetings. 
Of  whom,  indeed,  thought  the  lonely  missioner,  there 
seem  to  be  multitudes  about.     For  the  dining-room 
of  the  hotel  was  full,  every  table  being  crowded  with 
men  of  every  age  and  size.     The  majority  were 
young;    and  some  had  still   upon  their  faces  the 
smiling  enthusiasm  of  youth,  a  few  still  with  the 
light  of  purity  and  innocence.     Though  most  had 
acquired  the  hard  and  hardening  look  of  those  who 
had   only  one  aim   in  this   nft^if  Western  world- 
money;    and  who    had    gradually  abandoned    the 
influences  and  the  ideals  of  the  homes  left  behind. 
Old  before  their  time,  so  many  of  the  faces  seemed 
—and  all  their  talk  was  of  mines,  and  limits,  and 
gains   and  losses.    Of  language,  too,  there  was  a 
plenty— and    the    Reverend  Armitage  noted  with 
amazement  that  even  those  at  the  same  table  with 
himself  seemed  indifTerent  to  his  presence,  bestowing 
upon  him  but  a  passing  glance  in  which  there  was 
decidedly  more  of  contempt  than  anything  else. 

He  had  not  been  seated  long  before  he  observed 
tliat  the  company  was  not  exclusively  composed  of 
men  after  ail.  Away  at  the  farthermost  corner  of  the 
room  two  women  could  be  seen,  the  brightness  of 
whose  complexions  and  the  gaiety  of  whose  attire 
attracted  even  the  attention  of  this  one-time  Lecturer 


•  I 


if 


iw 


io6  TAg  S/NGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
on  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  And  the  marvel  grew  as  he 
heard  the  loudness  of  their  tones  and  the  boisterous- 
ness  of  their  laughter;  noted,  too, that  some  of  the 
men  kept  an  eye  out  in  their  direction,  sometimes 
exchanging  remarks  in  a  low  tone,  with  winks  and 
nods  significant,  jerking  their  heads  in  the  direction 
of  the  women. 

But  the  Reverend  Dr.  Seymour,  with  the  spirit  of 
his  race,  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  let  this  op- 
portunity pass  him  by.     Wherefore,  after  nervously 
clearing  his  throat  once  or  twice  and  rubbing  his 
tongue  along  a  pair  of  lips  that  had  prown  mysteri- 
ously dry,  he  accosted  the  man  sitting  to  his  right. 
A  sinister  sort  of  individual  he  was,  his  face  clouded 
and  dark,  intent  on  nothing  but  the  plate  before  him. 
Dr.  Seymour  handed  him  a  card,  one  of  many 
with  which  he  had  been  provided  by  the  Committee. 
It  bore  the  heading  "  The  King's  Business."  followed 
by  details   of  the  hour   of  service,  ending  wi.h  a 
cordial  invitation  to  attend. 

"  I'll  be  happy  to  see  you  in  the  Presbyterian 
Church  to-night,"  he  began  amiably;  "  I'm  going  to 
preach  there  for  some  weeks,  you  know— it's  the  first 
of  a  series  of  services-and  I  hope  you'll  come,  sir. 
And  I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  bring  your  pal,"  the  Doctor 
concluded,  secretly  proud  of  h.s  Western  vocabulary- 
he  had  heard  the  word  on  the  train  that  morning. 


"CAN'T  SHOOT  IVITHOUT  A  REST"    107 

The  prospector  ceased  chewing,  staring  incredu- 
lously. <'  What  the  devil  do  you  know  about  me— or 
about  my  pal— or  whether  I've  got  one  at  all  or  not  ?  " 
was  the  reply.  "  Here's  your  ticket,  guv'nor,"  as  he 
pushed  the  card  back  across  the  table. 

One  or  two  of  the  youths  snickered.  But  Dr.  Sey- 
mour was  not  easily  quenched.  '•  I  shall  be  glad," 
he  said,  looking  round  the  table  as  calmly  as  h;  could 
though  his  face  was  burning  red,  "  to  see  any  or  all 
of  you  at  the  meeting  to-night— I  extend  an  invita- 
tion to  you  all." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  two  or  three  of  the  men, 
evidently  ashamed  of  the  rudeness  of  their  companion. 
Just  then  a  festive  looking  youth  seated  at  the  very 
centre  of  the  table  leaned  over  towards  Dr.  Seymour 
and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  rejected  card.    ••  I  want 
it  for  Monty  here,"  he  said  gravely ;  •«  you'd  never 
think  of  giving  it  to  him,  sir— this  is  Mr.  Holmes, 
parson,"  bowing  seriously  as  he  spoke,  "  and  the  sky 
pilots  all  pass  him  by.     He's  the  religiousest  looking 
man  in  the  Kootenay— but  he's  a  gay  bird,  is  Montj-— 
it's  him  that  led  us  all  astray,  sir ;  so  if  you'll  just  hand 
me  that  card  I'll  place  it  where  'twill  do  the  most 
good,"  as  he  turned  soberly  and  handed  the  paste- 
board to  his  companion  amid  the  excessive  merriment 
of  the  men. 

"  Cut  out  your  blank  foolery,"  retorted  Holmes, 


^^'V-^ 


Is 


m 


loS    The  S/SfGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

colouring;  "when  I  want  to  go  to  church  I  won't 
need  you  fellows  to  help  me." 

•  .<eep  your  eye  off  that  far  corner  of  the  room. 
Monty,"  his  tormentor  jibed ;  "  look,  there  they're 
coming— and  they're  making  straight  for  you, 
Monty." 

A  dead  silence  fell  over  the  dining-room  as  the 
two  women,  their  raiment  rustling  as  they  walked, 
made  their  way  together  up  the  passage  between  the' 
tables  to  the  door.  Then  a  few  audacious  words 
could  be  heard,  chiefly  of  an  endearing  kind  ^nd 
a  half  suppressed  titter  broke  from  some  of  the 
younger  men.     Holmes'  eyes  were  on  his  plate. 

"  Don't  cut  your  old  friends  like  that,  Monty,"  one 
of  the  men  beside  him  muttered ;  ••  see,  she's  looking 
back  u'  you— that  one  with  the  flowers  in  her  hair." 

"  Go  to  the  devil,"  growled  Holmes,  giving  a  kick 
under  the  table. 

••  More  fastidious  than  the  rest  of  us,"  leered  an- 
other of  tlie  men  when  the  door  had  closed  on 
the  women;  "you  see,  Monty's  had  great  advan- 
tages—he's been  at  all  the  courts  of  Europe.  Say, 
Montj',"  he  went  on  in  a  louder  tone,  his  words  now 
evidently  meant  for  the  minister  as  well;  "you 
hadn't  ought  to  hold  these  here  meetmgs  in  such  con- 
tempt—even if  your  uncle  was  a  bishop  sor^-where  in 
England.     Sometimes  there's  a  heap  o'  .         .  them. 


"^  ,•  ^  *■■•■ 


"CAN'T  SHOOT  WITHOUT  A  REST"    109 

I  vas  at  one  once,  over  in  Greenwood— regular  Holy 
Roarer  kind— and  I  neve  -iughed  so  much  at  a 
circus.    Tell  you  about  it  if  you  like." 

"  Go  on,  then,"  said  one  or  two  of  the  men,  the 
narrative  coming  to  a  pause.  "  May  as  well  get  your 
lie  off  your  stomach  now  as  any  other  time." 

"  Gospel  truth,  this,"  calmly  returned  the  raconteur  ; 
"  an*  it  was  awful  funny.    The  preacher  that  night 
said  for  everybody  that  wanted  to  go  to  heaven  to 
stand  up.     Well,  natural  hkc,  'most  everybody  riz. 
All  except  one  bloke— an*  he  was  a  cowboy— and  he 
gripped  his  seat  hke  he  was   breakin'  a  broncho. 
Well,  the  preacher  looked  down  at  him :  •  Don't  you 
want  to  go  to  heaven  too,  my  friend  ? '  he  says,  •  you 
see  all  those  other  good  people  want  to  go,'  pinfin* 
at  the  congregation,  all  settin'  by  this  time.    '  Sure 
they  don't   want   to  goat  all,'  says   the  cowboy; 
'  they're  only  bluffin'  j'ou,  mister,  they're  only  takin' 
their  fun  off'n  you.'    •  Oh,  no,'  say-s  the   preacher, 
•  they  all  want   to   go.'     •  Will  you  permit  me  the 
privilege  o'  that  there  platform  for  two  minutes  by 
the  clock?'  says  the  cowboy,  quiet  hke.    'Certain 
sure,'  says  the  preacher,  bein'  as  he  was  a  reasonable 
cuss.    Then  the  bull  puncher,  he  goes  up  to  that 
there  platform.    An'  he  draws  his  six-shooter,  an'  he 
stands  there  and  glares  at  'em  for  -      ^nute  like  the 
devil.   '  Now,' says  he, 'if  there  s  an     .      ,vidual  here,' 


1   t 


SI     t 

'i  • 


ii 


5^:-i 


no    7A*  S/NGEk  of  The  KOOIENA  Y 

says  he,  holdin"  the  six-shooter  oui  in  front,  •  that 
really  xvauts  to  go  to  heaven,  let   em  stand  up  on 
their  hind  legs  '—an*  he  waited  -an'  the  sky-climbers 
jes*  rrippcd  their  seats  tiRhtern  death  an'  hung  on. 
•  I  tor  you  so.  parson— they  was  only  takin'  their  fun 
ofl'n  you,'   says  the  cowboy-an'  he  puts   his  six- 
shooter  in  his  belt  again  an'  smiles  kind  o'  sorrowful 
on  the  people  like,  an'  goes  back  to  h,.,  seat  as  quiet 
and  harmless  as  a  lamb.     But  I've  often  paid  six  bits 
for  a   far  less  divertin'  evenin'.     An'  I'm  goin'  to 
your  show  to-night,  parson,"  he  concluded,  nodding 
towards  the  latter  to  indicate  he  could  count  on  him 
to  the  last. 

The  Doctor  bowed  gravely  in  return  ;  then  arose, 
discomfited,  and  quit  the  room.     Hurriedly  donning 
coat  and  hat  he  passed  out  on  to  the  street,  anxious 
to  view  his  new  surroundings.     Square  after  square  he 
traversed,  eagerly  taking  m  the  signs  of  life  about 
him.     All  struck  him  as  cheap  and  flimsy.     The  low 
wooden   structures,  evidently   rushed   swiftly   up  to 
serve  a  tcmporar,v  purpose,  with  flaming  signs  and 
advertisements;    the     houses    with    shining    roofs; 
the  rude,  uneven  sidewalks,  all  contrasting  strangely 
with  the  mighty  mountains  tl    t  overtopped  them, 
bearing  the  stamp  of  eternity  from  ba  j  to  brow. 

Men,  men  everywhere!     Kager-cyed  and  intense 
they  moved  along  the  wide  and  sometimes  rickety 


"CANT  SHOOT  WITHOUT  A  REST"    m 

pavements,  crossini;   and  recrossing  the  black  and 
uiiry  road.     Some,  of  coune,  were  lojtcrinK  \  new- 
comers these,  like  himself— or,  worse,  old  timers  who 
were  down  and  out,  homcics.j,  workless,  friendless, 
the  ache  of  loneliness  and  despair  upon  their  faces, 
their  early  visions  of  this  Elysium  all  turned  to  ashes 
now.     Every  sort  and  condition  of  men  seemed  to 
be  in  this  new-born  town.     The  Chinaman,  smiling 
and  stealthy ;  the  Jap,  stolid  and  confident ;  a  Negro 
now  and  then,  most  alien  of  all ;  the  Hindoo,  like  an 
apparition  of  the  East,  almost  like  an  embodiment 
of  its  Menace,  tall,  sepulcliral,  rrini.ing,  looking  out 
with  dark  and  bodeful  eyes  upon  this  mushroom  life 
about  him,  amiably  contemptuous  of  its  bab'-  civih- 
zation.     Ves,  the  Hindoo,  ominous  visitor  to  rhese 
Western  shores,    uninvited,  undismayed,  cratiy   of 
movement  as  of  glance,  his  flashy  turban  suggestive 
of  millions  and  millions  of  like  turbaned  heads  that 
lie  behind,  willing,  waiting,  peering  acioss  the  ocean 
whose  vastness  those  Orientals  are  learning  to  de- 
spise.    Yes,  the  Hindoo  was  there  in  ever-increasing 
numbers,  significant  of  much,  prophetic  of  more  than 
car.  now  be  reckoned. 

And  the  Red  Indian  was  still  to  be  seen.  Only 
the  Siwash,  it  is  true— but  still  th-  Indian.  Still  the 
swarthy  face  and  the  piercing  eyes  and  the  long  shiny 
plaited  coils  of  hair,  raven  black  and  glistening ;  still 


If 


■^■l.W^i 


n;j 


I 


112    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

with  his  pony,  patient  and  bridle-wise ;  still  with  the 
trophies  of  his  rude  and  primitive  art  which  he  offers 
so  cavalierly  for  sale ;  the  squaws  still  in  their  blank- 
ets, and  with  their  papooses  strapped  on  their  backs, 
the  blinking  baby  faces  upturned  to  the  sun.     Won- 
derful spectacle,  this,  that  the  Reverend  Armitage 
witnessed  that  autumn  day— for  he  saw,  over  and 
over  again,  in  that  rude  and  shining  street  beneath 
heaven's  blazing  sun,  the  Red  Indian  and  the  Hindoo 
meet.     And  the  Indian,  as  ever  has  been  his  wont, 
cast  no  more  than  a  swift  and  contemptuous  glance 
upon  the  stranger  as  he  went  his  way ;  while  the 
Oriental,  smiHng  still,  inspected   the  other  frankly 
and  laughed  a  little  to  himself  as  he  went  on  with 
stealthy  step. 

Strange  meeting  this— collision,  rather,  let  it  be 
called— of  the  ancient  Possessor  and  the  modern  In- 
vader ;  upon  which,  unmoved,  did  God's  complacent 
sun  look  down  that  day.  Old  Observation  saw  it 
too,  frowning  darkly  in  the  distance,  for  he  had 
nursed  these  red  men  on  his  bosom  ages  and  ages 
since. 

The  crisp  autumn  air  soon  had  its  way  with  our  re- 
sponsive newcomer  as  he  '"andered  here  and  there 
about  the  straggling  town.  The  fresh  wild  breath, 
pure  and  purifying,  of  the  mountains  blew  about 
him,    health    and    hopefulness    in    every    amiable 


"CAN'T  SHOOT  l^ITHOUT  A  REST"    113 

breeze— for  the  mountains  discountenance  gales  and 
storms.  The  discomfiture  and  depression  that  the 
incident  at  the  hotel  had  naturally  provoked  soon 
began  to  disappear;  for  one  thing,  everybody  seemed 
so  friendly,  the  community  of  strangerhood  tending 
to  blend  the  whole  population  into  one.  Besides,  it 
was  exhilarating  to  stroll  for  the  first  time  beneath 
the  mighty  shade  of  these  towering  hills ;  life's  Dignity 
and  Worth  and  Labour  were  all  ennobled  by  these 
high  environs. 

Passing  along  a  quiet  street  as  he  came  near  his 
hotel  again,  Dr.  Seymour  had  another  reminder  that 
he  was  not  in  his  orderly  parish  at  home,  much  less 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  former  labours  on  behalf  of 
Ecclesiastical  Polity  across  the  sea.  Turning  out  a 
little  from  the  sidewalk  to  avoid  a  dray  from  which 
two  men  were  delivering  large  blocks  of  ice,  he  re- 
marked that  one  of  them,  evidently  hired  for  the 
hour,  was  of  some  race  he  had  not  observed  before. 
In  the  friendliest  way,  pausing  in  his  walk,  the  minis- 
ter enquired  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  charge : 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  to  what  nationality  does  that 
man  there  belong  ?  " 

The  other,  evidently  an  American,  gave  an  impa- 
tient look  :  "  What's  that  you're  saying,  mister  ?  " 

"Of  what    nationality   is    that   man   beside  you 
there  ?  "  repeated  the  Doctor. 


114    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

The  one  thus  addressed  gave  his  head  a  jerk 
towards  the  foreigner.  "  Say.  what  the  deuce  are 
you  anyway  ?  "  he  enquired  tersely. 

The  alien  hesitated  and  the  question  was  repeated, 
unconventionally  as  before,  with  a  few  words  of  ex- 
planation added. 

"  Ah !  ah,  Eetaly !  "  exclaimed  he  of  the  Latin  race. 

"  Dago  ! "  grunted  th-  other;  "  the  brute  says  he's 
a  Dago." 

Dr.  Seymour  groaned  involuntarily  as  he  turned 
to  go  on  his  way.  "  Sad,  sad  ! "  he  said,  just  loudly 
enough  to  be  heard;  «« it's  worse  than  I  ever  dreamed 
of." 

"  Don't  go  to  pityin'  him,  mister,"  returned  the 
informant,  misinterpreting  the  Doctor's  grief;  "he 

don't  know  no  better;  the 's  kind  o' pro'ud  of 

it,  I  think." 

Whereat  the  Doctor  groaned  afresh,  though  more 
privately  this  time,  and  strode  onward  to  his  hotel. 


The  hare  est  hearted  would  have  felt  sorry  for  the 
Reverend  Armitage  Seymour  that  night  could  he 
have  followed  him  to  the  church  and  entered  into  all 
the  difficulties  with  which  he  was  beset  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  campaign. 

To  begin  with,  the  church  was  certainly  an  insig- 
nificant looking  institution,  and  Dr.  Seymour  silently 


-CAN'T  SHOOT  IVITHOUT  A  REST-     115 

and  ruefully  compared  it  with  his  St.  Enoch's  Kirk 
at  home.  It  seemed  to  give  the  Gospel  but  a  sorry 
chance,  tliought  the  Reverend  Arraitage,  when  it 
must  be  preached  in  such  a  place  as  this.    The  Umi- 

tatiuns  of  the  tiling  began  at  the  very  outset for  the 

good  Doctor  was  hard  put  to  it  to  find  a  place  where 
he  might  assume  his  gown  and  bands  witliout  the  in- 
v..sion  of  curious  and  irreverent  eyes.  This  was 
finally  accomplished  in  the  solitary  little  apartment 
behind  the  church  that  served  as  vestry,  choir  ren- 
dezvous, committee  room,  and  many  other  things  be- 
side. But  the  caretaker  was  there,  and  his  devoted 
wife  was  with  him ;  and  even  the  enmuffled  and  en- 
swathed  cleric,  swifdy  struggling  to  emerge  from  the 
silken  medley  in  process  of  adjustment,  could  liear 
their  mutual  gasps  of  amazement,  almost  of  -!"arm. 

Further,  to  deepen  the  discouragement,  the  pastor 
of  the  church  was  not  there  to  lend  his  aid,  as  has 
already  been  told.  This  in  itself  created  a  depress 
ing  atmosphere  about  the  lonely  stranger— and, 
besides,  threw  on  him  the  full  charge  of  the  "  pre- 
liminaries," though  he  had  hoped  to  reserve  himself 
for  the  great  occasion  of  the  sermon. 

Shortly  before  the  hour  for  beginning  the  service. 
Dr.  Seymour  was  temporarily  cheered  by  the  intima- 
tion, loudly  and  jubilantly  made  by  the  caretaker 
and  cheerily  confirmed  by  his  wife,  that  tht  elder  was 


»1 


i»; 


?;- i  I 


H  t 


n6  7A^  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 
coming  up  the  street.  VVJiich  functionary  the  min- 
ister awaited  eagerly,  though  marvelling  somewhat 
as  to  what  was  implied  by  the  rather  solitary  desig- 
nation "  the  elder."  A  minute  or  t;vo  later  that 
worthy  himself  appeared,  puffing  and  breathless,  but 
exuberant  in  his  welcome. 

"  It's  glad  I  am  to  see  you  'ere."  began  the  honest 
man,  looking  hopefully  in  the  other's  face  f-r  the 
power  he  had  been  taught  to  expect  in  all  distin- 
gu.shed  preachers  from  a  distance.  "I'm  'opin' 
there's  a  great  work  for  you  to  do  'ere.  sir.  in  this 
part  o  the  vmeyard-be  you  xvantin'  a  glass  o'  water 
in  the  pulpit,  sir  ?  " 

No.  Dr.  Seymour  would  not  require  it.  "  I  think 
-I  think  I'd  like  a  meeting  of  the  Session  at  the 
close  of  the  service.''  he  intimated  after  a  little  con- 
versation had  ensued. 

"That's  me."  said  the  little  man  humbly;  -there 
bean't  any  helders  only  mc,  Doctor-ju.t  me  an'  the 
minister.  An'  'e's  at  the  Coast-he  has  a  orful 
cough,  sir." 

"  Only  you  ! "  tlie  Doctor  echoed  in  amazement  • 
"Where  are  all  the  rest  of  the  elders-surely  there 
must  be  more  ?  " 

"Never  did  'ave  but  four,"  the  lone  survivor  as- 
sured him  ,■  ..  one  of  'em  ,ve„t  west  to  a  fruit  farm  ■ 
another  of  em  made  a  'eap  o'  mc.ey  in  a  mine-an' 


I'MA 


II 


"CANT  SHOOT  'WITHOUT  A  REST"     117 

'e  got  choked  up  wiv  riches,  'e  did,  sir.  An'  the 
other  one,  'e  couldn't  get  his  missis  converted— so  'e 
resigned,  sir.  An'  that  leaves  me  to  be  the  Session, 
sir— but  I'm  pray  in'  night  an'  day,  Doctor,  as  'ow 
you'll  do  a  great  work  'ere,  an'  'ave  many  souls  for 
your  'ire." 

"  You're  an  Englishman,  aren't  you?  "  the  Doctor 
enquired,  looking  rather  sadly  at  the  Httle  man. 
This  type  of  elder  was  new  to  him.  "  And  may  I 
enquire  your  name  ?  " 

"  'Awkins,  sir,"  he  responded  cheerfully,  "  'Enry 
'Awkins— an'  Hinglish  to  the  backbone,  sir.     That's 
the  funny  part  about  it— a  liinglishman  for  a  helder 
—but  in  this  'ere  country,  they  'ave  to  take  what 
they  can  get,  sir.     I  used  to  be  a  Methody  at  'ome, 
but  when  I  came  out  'ere  there  bean't  any  church 
but  this,  so  I  goes  in  wi'  't,  an'  now  I'm  the  Presby- 
terianest  one  la  the  'ole  congregation,"  the  little  man 
went  on,  blinking  slightly  as  he  got  the  better  of  the 
word.     "  I  believes  in  bein'  fore-hordained,  pu'  never 
fallin'  away  again.     An'  I  learned  the  first  ten  ques- 
tions in  the  Catechism,"  he  added  a  little  proudly ; 
"  bein'  a  httle  aged,  my  mind  didn't  'old  water  very 
good— but  I'd  die  for  them  ten  quescions,  sir.     An'  I 
'ope  you'll  'ave  many  souls  for  your  'ire.     Glory  to 
God !  as  I  used  to  say  when  I  was  a  Methody— an'  I 
says  ■         ." 


I 


II 


I  J 

I*:        *  i 


MS    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 

The  Doctor  looked  at  this  uncommon  specimen  of 
elder  with  deepening  interest.     The  sincerity  of  the 
little  man  was  evident  in  every  featun-  of  the  earnest 
happy  face,  bright  with  love  for  his  lellow  men  and 
c\  ident  zeal  for  the  cause  he  had  at  heart. 

"  Have  you  any  advice  to  give  me  before  we  start 
the  meeting.  Mr.  Hawkins  ?  "  Dr.  Seymour  enqt.ired  • 
lie  smiled  inwaraly  as  he  reflected  to  what  a  pass 
things  had  come,  that  tliis  request  should  be  made- 
by  him. 

"  Give  it  to  'em  'ot.  Doctor-'ot  an'  'eavy.     I  was 
a  orful  sinner  myself,  Doctor.    An'  I  ,^ot  converted 
wiv  a  club,  sir-if  you  follows  my  meanin'.     Yes.  sir 
I    got   thumped  into  the  Kingdom.    There  wasn't 
ever  a  sin-only  murder,  p'raps-that  I  'adn't  com- 
m.tted-an'  it  was  Billy  Bray  that  thumped  me  in- 
wiv  the  terrors  o'  the  law.     So  give  it  to  'cm  'ot 
Doctor,  'ot  an'  'eavy_an'  you'll  'ave  souls  for  your 
ire.     There's  a  plenty  to  get  'ot  about,  Doctor,"  the 
little  man  drew  up  confidentially  to  say;  "  this  'ere 
place's  'Ell  for  sartin-an'  that  bean't  no  swearin' 
either.     But  what  wiv  the  drink-an'  the  gamblin- 
an'  what's   worse,  far  worse,  sir."  the  serious   face 
darkening  ominously  as  he  drew  still  nearer  to  the 
minister  and  added  something  in  a  low  and  portent- 
ous  voice. 

"  An'   they  do  say,  sir."  he  went  on  in  an  awe- 


"CAN'T  SHOOT  WITHOUT  A  REST"     ug 

stricken  tone, "  they  do  say  as  'ow  there's  poor  lost  girls, 
poor  lone,  lost  critters,  that  s  in  those  there  'ouses 
against  their  will,  sir— eatin'  their  'earts  out  in  shame, 
sir.  Some  calls  it  'White  Slave  Traffic '—you've 
mebbe  'eard  tell  of  it,  sir— but  I  calls  it  the  devil's 
press  gang,  Doctor,  I  calls  it  the  devil's  press  gang. 
Oh,  sir,  it  sure  bean't  no  swearin'  to  say  this  'ere 
place's  'Ell  for  sartin — so  you  give  it  to  'em  'ot  an' 
'eavy,  Doctor,  'ot  an'  'eavy— like  I  was  brought  into 
the  Kingdom,  wiv  a  club." 

The  Doctor  pondered,  moving  the  while  towards 
the  door  that  led  into  the  church.  Suddenly  he 
turned  quickly  and  confronted  the  solitary  elder. 
"I  say,  Mr.  Hawkins,  what  about  the  singing?  Is 
the  organist,  the  organist  and  choir— are  they  in  the 
church  ? " 

The  elder  scratched  his  Cornish  head.  "  That's  the 
worst  of  it,"  he  began  in  some  embarrassment  •  "  I 
called  und  at  the  horganist's  when  I  was  a-comin' 
down— an'  'e's  promised  to  go  to  a  dance,  sir,  in 
Tompkins'  'AH.  The  Maccabees,  'e  said  it  was.  It's 
their  reg'lar  night,  'e  said  ;  an'  'e  said,  anyhow,  as  'ow 
'e  didn't  know  'e  was  'ired  for  these  'ere  special  shin- 
digs—that was  'is  own  words,  sir,  an'  I  told  him  'e 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  'isself.  An'  I'm  thinkin' 
most  o'  the  choir'll  be  there  too.  So  you'll  ha'  to  do 
the  best  you  can,  Doctor — but  a  body  doesn't  need  a 


ft 


Vi 


±1 

1 


V  i 


•  20   Tht  SISGER  Of  Tlu  KO07ENAY 
cl.olr,  ,o  givo  it  to  'em  'o,  an'  >„,.."  ,„e  little  man 
concluded  as  he  opened  tl,e  door  and  sho.ved  the 
mnnster  into  -he  „,ai„  aud.toriun,,  if  upon  room  ,o 
rude  such  ponderous  name  may  rest. 

Consternation  and  d,smay,  voiceless  save  for  the 
deeper  s.,ence,  fell  on  the  little  gathering  as  the  silk- 
obed  figure  passed  with  stately  step  towards  the 
puli«t     Th,s  was  an  apparition  the  like  of  which  had 
never  been  seen  in  these  parts  before,  and  the  won- 
denng  Westerners  could  but  look  with  blank  ama«. 
n..nt  mutual  faces  turned  in  silent  questioning  as  to 
what  th,s  thing  might  mean.    But  the  Reverend  Armi- 
tage  was  quite  unconscious  of  it  all  as  he  looked  out 
over  the  little  congregation  before  he  rose  to  begin 
the  serv.ce.    He  was  thinking  rather  of  the  insig,^fi. 
cant  size  of  the  audience,  and  wondering  how  he 
could  summon  up  the  necessary  enthusiasm  to  preach 
to  these  staring  few,  most  of  whom  were  huddled  to- 
gelher  in  the  back  pews  near  the  door,  including  but 
a  fracfon  of  the  very  class  with  whom  he  had  most 
hoped  to  come  in  contact.     For  there  were,  as  far  as 
h   could  see,  but  three  or  four  who  bore  any  signs  of 
«ther  the  lumber-shanty  or  the  mine-and  blank 
amazement  set  upon  their  faces  as  they  surveyed  the 
black-robed  figure  before  them. 

The  Doctor  muddled  through  ••  the  preliminaries  " 
as  best  he  could,  the  singing  being  at  the  mercy  of 


"CANT  SHOOT  IV/THOUT  A  REST"    \2X 

Mr.  Hawkins  himself,  whose  sole  aim  seemed  to  be 
that  every  one  should  understand  the  words,  aided  by 
one  lone  spinster  of  serious  years  whose  powerful 
staccato  never  failed;  the  congregational  melody, 
therefore,  resolved  itself  into  a  very  picturesque  duet 
which  the  statuesque  audience  calmly  received  through 
both  eye  and  ear,  joining  in  a  rather  significant  and 
unanimous  sigh  as  each  strident  operation  found  its 
close. 

Then  came  the  sermon.  The  Doctor's  text 
was  <•  To  all  in  Rome  called  to  be  saints  " ;  and  the 
main  theme  of  the  sermon  was  "  called  to  be  saints 
—in  Rome!!"  with  a  double  exclamation  mark 
after  the  name  of  the  wicked  and  profligate  place. 
As  the  Doctor's  thought  developed,  it  became  abun- 
dantly evident,  even  to  the  drowsiest  auditor,  that  he 
was  bent  on  convincing  them  that  a  man  might  be  a 
Christian  even  in  such  a  lawless  and  dissolute  place 
as  the  very  town  of  Rockcliffe  itself. 

Warming  to  his  subject,  page  after  page  turned 
rapidly,  the  Doctor  became  quite  animated,  almost 
eloquent,  before  the  sermon  came  to  its  graceful  and 
pohbhed  close.  Then  followed  an  appropria^-  hymn, 
this  also  rendered  by  the  zealous  Hawkins  and  the 
indefatisable  spinster  of  serious  age,  the  operation 
heroically  borne  by  the  congregation  in  the  same 
stohd  silence  as  before. 


jt£i 


I"    7/,^  S/WGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

After  the  little  Kathering  had  trickled  slowly  out 
two  or  three  young  men  xvalkcd  down  the  iil-iiiihted 
street. 

"  Well,  how  did  that  catch  you  ?"  one  was  heard 
to  enquire. 

••  Too  kid-gloved  for  these  parts."  one  of  his  com- 
pan.ons  replied;  --ain't  any  use  here,  that  lady-like 
Kuid  o'  stuff," 

••  An'  what  for  did  he  wear  that  there  black  night- 
sh.rt-with  them  two  white  tags  at  the  top  ?  "  the 
other  asked  in  mild  bewilderment. 

•'  Search  ;;...  Deep  mournin'.  I  guess-mebbe  for 
th.s  here  neck  o'  wuods-you  could  see  Sodom 
and  Gomorry  wasn't  in  it  with  «.."  was  the  despond- 
ent  answer. 

"  VVell."  volunteered  the  remaining  one  of  the  three, 
silent  hitherto.  "  I  could  stand  the  kid-glove  part ;  an' 
I  could  stomach  that  there  thing  he  wore.     But  what 
beat  me  was  the  way  he  read  every  bloonun' word  he 
had  to  say ;  looked  like  a  hound  followin'  a  scent  the 
way  he  kep'  his  nose  to  the  paper-no.  sir.  a  feller 
hat  cant  shoot  without  a  rest  ain't  got  no  license 
to   come   huntin'  in    these  parts,"  a  sentiment  that 
seemed  to  meet  with  hearty  approval  from  his  fellow 
critics. 

Meantime,  Dr.  Seymour  had  returned  to  the  httle 
room  behind  the  church,  where  he  was  presently 


"CAN'T  SHOOT  IV/TH0U7  A   REST'     123 

rejoined  by  tlie  faithful  elder,  who  watched  with 
friendly  interest  the  new  and  impressive  spectacle 
of  a  minister  in  process  of  disrobement. 

"  It's  'ard  to  give  it  to  'em  'ot  an'  'eavy  -wiv  that 
a'oldin'  of  you  back,"  l:*^  ventured  sympathetically, 
nodding  towards  the  silken  robe  as  tlie  Doctor  care- 
fully folded  it  up. 

The  minister  made  some  inarticulate  reply. 

"  An'  why,  Doctor,"  the  zealous  Hawkins  went 
on,  "  why  didn't  you  ask  'em  to  stand  up— if  they 
wanted  to  be  saved  ?  It  kind  o'  makes  it  easier  for 
'em,  sir." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "  I 
don't  believe  in  this  standing  up  business,"  he  said 
firmly ;  «« let  all  things  be  done  decently  and  in  order." 

The  little  man  stood  abashed  for  a  moment.  But 
his  earnest  soul  provided  quick  response.  "  If  you 
was  a-pullin'  folks  out  of  a  fire —an'  .f  you  got  'em 
down  the  ladder— by  their  'cad  or  their  'eels— I'm 
thinkin'  it'd  all  be  decently  rn'  in  herder,  Doctor," 
he  returned,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the  preacher. 

And  as  Henry  Hawkins  went  out  into  the  street, 
hurrying  towards  his  lonely  and  humble  house,  he 
might  have  been  heard  to  mutter:  "I'm  afraid 
there's  a  good  deal  o'  the  Methody  in  me  yet.  But 
then  I'm  an  old-fashioned  dodger — an',  anyway,  I 
was  broi>    it  into  the  Kingdom  wiv  a  club." 


IX 

^    PARK    AMIDST    THE   ROCKIES 

IT  was  but  a  sorry  "job"  that  Murray  McLean 
had  secured.     Night  ^vatchman  about  the  sta- 

and  T'  7''"  ''""'  "^"'  *"  ^'^  baggage-room 
and  special  instructions  that  the  semaphore  lights 
were  to  be  kept  burning  bnght-that  was  the  lonely 
pos.t.on  he  had  secured  and  whose  duties  he  had 
been  perform.ng  for  some  nights  now.  Pu^-,e 
enough,  in  very  truth;  but  there  was  bread  and 
butter  m  ,t~and  that  was  grimly  necessary. 

So  .t  was  no  wonder  that  his  frame  of  mind  was 
far  from  jubilant  this  frosty  autumn  morning  as  he 
strode  forth,  indifferent  to  sleep,  to  learn  something 
more   of  the  great   new  country  i„  which  his  lot 
seemed  to  have  been  so  unfortunately  cast.     Somc- 
tlnng  of  deep  and  crushing  shame  clouded  all  his 
rnood  as  he  thought  of  the  misspent  days  behind,  of 
the  folly  that  had  brought  him  to  this  pass,  of  the 
dear  face  at  home  he  had  seen  for  the  last  time  as  he 
had  left  h.  mothers  home  that  night  ,n  the  lane  of 
hght  from  the  lamp  she  held  so  high 

Yet.  amid  it  all.  something  of  wild  hope  possessed 

124 


A  PARK  /IM/DST  The  ROCKIES    125 

him.    something,  too,  of  strange  and  secret  fear. 
An  ominous  sense  of  destiny  oppressed  him,  half 
oppressed  and  half  uplifted.     He  seemed  to  feel,  in 
a  vague  and  unintelligible  way,  that  all  the  future 
was  hanging  in  the  balance.     Old  ways,  old  com- 
panions, old  habits,  all  passed  in  line  before  him, 
beguiling  even  while  they  repelled  his  soul.     He 
knew  his  weakness,  knew  how  easy  it  would  be  for 
his  impulsive  nature— especially  under  the  stress  of 
discouragement    amounting    almost  to   despair— to 
yield  to  some  temptation  that  might  be  to  him  the 
very  brink  of  ruin,  lapsing  into  all  that  had  threatened 
in  omer  days,  all  that  he  dimly  felt  might  reanpear 
in  greater  violence  than  before. 

And  still,  with  all  this  secret  anguish  of  misgiving, 
he  felt  within  him  a  giant  strength— and  a  con- 
sciousness, almost  a  prophecy,  of  power— such  as  he 
had  never  known  before.  The  overthrow,  or  the 
victory,  would  be  equally  great  and  final. 

The  towering  mountains  about  him  seemed— like 
the  spirit  within— to  play  upon  his  soul  with  ever- 
varying  influence.  For  sometimes,  in  their  sublin.c 
detachment,  they  seemed  to  darkly  hint  at  the  in- 
dependence of  a  tiny  human  life,  the  right  of  puny 
man  to  go  his  unmarked  way  beneath  their  mighty 
shelter,  a  mere  atom  amid  the  masterpieces  that 
mock  his  littleness  on  every  hand.     But  again  they 


126    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

towered  above  him  like  animate  things,  the  very 
sentinels  of  God,  eloquent  of  Doom  to  all  that 
would  grovel  basely  on  the  earth,  remindful 
of  the  heavenlies  towards  which  they  soared, 
all  but  impersonating  the  Majesty  of  that  Creator 
whose  glory  and  purity  they  reflected  in  eternal 
silence. 

Thus  throbbed  the  tide  of  battle  in  his  heart  as  he 
went  his  aimless  way  that  morning,  marvelling  at  the 
splendour  of  the  mountains  that  overhung  him ;  for- 
getful, yet  dimly  conscious,  of  this  mighty  truth— 
that  he  was  greater  than  the  mountain,  since  he 
could  choose,  nay  must— that  he  could  be  saved  or 
lost,  could  be  glorified  or  damned  ! 

He  was  still  in  the  midst  of  his  musings  when  they 
were  suddenly   interrupted   by  a   decidedly  pretty 
spectacle  that  brought  him  to  a  standstill,  gazing  in 
admiration.    The  path  he  had  been  following  ran 
close  along  the  side  of  a  high  fence,  of  netted  wire, 
within  which  a  sudden  flash  of  movement  attracted 
his  attention.     Peering  closely,  he  soon  descried  a 
deer,  an  exclamation  of  delight  breaking  from  his 
lips.     Soon  another,  and  yet  another  still,  appeared 
in  view,  the  graceful  creatures  disporting  themselves 
in    the    sun.     He    stood,   looking   eagerly— and  a 
veritable  herd  of  them  seemed  to  be  roaming  at  will 
among  the  trees.    A  little  farther  off,  restlessly  paw- 


A  PARK  AMIDST  The  ROCKIES    127 

ing  at  the  grass,  .  jamed  a  y.mg  moose,  evidently 
scornful  of  the  les  cr  breeds  ah  jut  him. 

Murray  was  noi  lO.ig  ..:  cr  ming  to  the  conclusion 
that  this  was  a  private  park ;  indeed,  he  could  just 
catch  the  outline  of  a  stately  house  in  the  distance. 
What  else  this  imposing  place  might  enclose  of  in- 
terest he  could  only  surmise — but  the  sight  fascinated 
him.  Still  gazing  intently,  he  started  suddenly  as  a 
voice  fell  on  his  ears. 

"  Uncommon  pretty  sight,  ain't  it  ?  "  and  as  Mur- 
ray turned  to  look  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
a  man  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  I  should  think  it  is,"  Murray  answered,  nodding 
towards  the  estate  in  general ;  "  have  you  any  idea 
whose  place  this  is,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  tol'able  good  idea,"  the  man  returned,  smil- 
ing ;  "  ought  to  have,  anyway — seein'  it  belongs  to 
me.     Like  to  look  around,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Rather  !  "  Murray  returned  eagerly ;  "  I  never 
saw  anvthing  like  this  before — seems  to  me  it  must 
be  like  one  of  those  English  country  places  I've  read 
about,"  turning  enquiringly  towards  his  new-found 
acquaintance. 

"  Well,  now,  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  is,"  replied  the 
man,  evidently  well  pleased ;  "  that  is,  to  a  certain 
extent.  That's  the  Missus's  idea,  anyhow — women's 
a  good  deal  heavier  on  that  kind  o'  thing  than  men. 


I 


128    Tke  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

I  fancy.  My  name's  Ludlow,"  he  announced  ab- 
ruptly;  "p'raps  you  wouldn't  mind  tellin'  me 
yours?" 

"  McLean,"  promptly  answered  the  other,  "  Mur- 
ray McLean— I  only  arrived  here  lately  from  On- 
tario. And  I'm  ,  working ,  at  the  station— in  the 
meantime,  at  least,"  a  slight  blush  kindling  his 
check. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,"  the  man  answered  rather  curtly ; 
"  there's  a  heap  o'  young  fellers  round  here  that  don't 
work  at  anythin'.  Come  on  in— here's  a  gate,  though 
you  couldn't  tell  it  if  you  didn't  know." 

They  passed  within  and  roamed  onward  through 
the  splendid  stretches  of  rolling  forest,  Murray  ex- 
claiming with  delight  at  the  beauty  of  it  all.  The 
soft-eyed  creatures,  evidently  quite  tame,  showed  but 
a  passing  interest  in  the  intruders;  once  or  twice 
their  owner  touched  them  with  his  hand  as  he  passed 
by, 

"Come  on  over  towards  the  beaver  dam,"  the 
guide  suggested  after  they  had  taken  in  the  main 
features  of  the  place.  "  You'd  like  to  see  the  beavers, 
wouldn't  you  ?  An'  I've  got  a  great  bunch  o'  pigeons 
over  there,  too— don't  believe  there's  another  like 
'em  in  this  country." 

Murray  was  willing  enough  and  they  turned  their 
steps  as  his  guide  directed.    Just  as  they  reached  a 


A  PARk   AMIDST  The  ROCKIES    129 

little  eminence  above  a  brook,  a  woman's  voice  came 
floating  through  the  trees. 
"  Father,"  it  cried ;  "  are  you  there,  father  ? " 
"Hello!"     responded     the     man     in     question. 
"  Hello !  is  that  you,  Hilda  ?     Here,  down   by  the 
summer-house  ! " 

Both  turned  their  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  both  listening.  And  a  moment  later,  emerg- 
ing into  view  beneath  a  spreading  tree,  there  ap- 
peared two  living  things.  One  was  a  maiden ;  the 
other  was  a  deer — and  her  arm  was  about  its  neck  as 
she  walked,  one  hand  toying  caressingly  with  the 
glossy  ear. 

She  stood  still,  leaning  back  a  little  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  be:  creature  beside  her  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  strau,  .  Like  an  embodi<*'i  spirit  of  the 
woods  she  looked  in  the  morning  light,  the  tall  and 
graceful  form  poised  in  the  attitude  of  surprise,  the 
lips  parted  from  her  running,  the  colour  coming  and 
going  in  the  girlish  face,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling 
from  the  exercise  or  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 
Then  suddenly,  her  eyes  fixedly  turned  away  from 
the  tall  figure  on  which  they  had  rested  quite  long 
enough  to  be  noticeable,  she  gave  her  message. 

"Mr.  Wilcox  is  at  the  house  waiting  for  you, 
father.  And  he  has  a  surveyor  with  him — something 
about  limits,  I  think  he  said,"  she  announced,  stand- 


no    The  SINGER  of   The  K007ENA  Y 

ing  as  still  as  the  restive  creature  beside  lier  would 
permit. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  ans-.cred  her  father— "  but  I 
didn't  think  he'd  be  so  early,     I'm  sorry,  Mr.— Mr. 
McLean,"  he  said,  Murray  supplying  the  name  as 
he  hesitated,  "  but  Til  really  have  to  see  this  here 
man— it's  about  a  big  timber  buy.     Say,  Hilda,"  he 
digressed,  turning  to  the  girl,  "  I  was  gom'  to  show 
this    gentleman    the  pigeons,  an"   the   beavers,   ai' 
everything.     Will  you  take  him  up-an'  get  a  hold 
of  Martin-  an'  ask  him  to  show  the  gentleman  round  ? 
Sony  to  have  to  leave  you,  sir-  I'll  take  this  short 
cut  across  the  crec'.--but  Martin'll  show  you  every- 
thin'  worth  lookin  at.     \oull  take  him  up,  Hilda?" 
as  he  turned  and  disappeared  down  the  sloping  valley. 
They  stood  facing  each  other,  the  sound  of  the 
departing  footsteps   dying  in  the  distance.     For  a 
curiously  long  minute  they  looked  in  silence.     Mur- 
ray was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  proving  a  great  nuisance,"  he 
said. 

"  What-what  for?  "  she  almost  stammered. 

"  I  don't  know  what  for,"  he  answered,  smihng  a 
little  grimly  ;  »  nuisances  never  do." 

She  turned,  a  noticeable  reserve  in  her  manner. 
"Well,  I'll  do  as  father  directed."  she  said  coldly. 
"  I'll  get  Martin— he  looks  after  .he  dan;." 


:i»S£i.' 


A   PARK  AMIDST  The  ROCKIES    131 

I\Iurray  secretly  employed  her  closing  word,  link- 
ing Martin's  name  with  it— for  the  maiden  was 
fair  to  look  upon.  "  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  saiJ,  mov- 
ing over  beside  her  under  the  tree.  The  deer  turned 
its  eyes  on  him  as  suspiciously  as  is  possible  with 
such  eyes  as  those. 

She  moved  on  in  silence,  the  man  behind  her. 
How  close  behind,  she  evidently  did  not  know  ;  for 
once,  drawing  a  springy  branch  taut  as  she  passed, 
it  flew  back  and  hit  him  in  the  face.  Catching  the 
sharp  exclamation  he  could  not  suppress,  she  turned 
on  him  in  a  moment,  and  her  solicitude  and  self- 
reproach  were  music  to  the  martyr's  eai.  It  was 
then,  as  her  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  face 
where  a  slight  cut  appeared,  that  he  caught  for  the 
first  time  the  splendour  of  those  eyes  that  were  never 
so  beautiful  as  when  sympathy  or  tenderness  shone 
through  them. 

'<  What  a  shame  ! "  she  cried,  her  voice  actually 
shaking;  "  oh,  oh,  it's  bleeding  some  !  " — wherewith, 
forgetful  of  everything,  she  drew  a  dainty  handker- 
chief from  her  bosom  and  gently  applied  it  to  his  cheek. 
Her  fingers  touched  him  once ;  and  Murray  McLean 
knew  then,  and  never  before  till  then,  what  it  means 
to  have  all  the  hot  blood  of  youth  run  riot  through 
a  youthful  frame. 
But  he  made  httle  of  it,  assured  her  that  he  bled  on 


152  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTEN/IY 
the  slightest  provocation  anyway,  and  begged  her  to 
continue  on  her  way.  Which  she  did,  and  now  in 
strictest  silence.  Presently  they  approached  the  little 
house,  evidently  Martin's  place  of  abode,  hard  by  the 
spacious  barn  and  driving  shed  that  stood  in  a  clear 
space  by  themselves. 

"  Martin ! "  she  called ;  "  are  you  there,  Martin  ?  " 
and  it  seemed  to  Murray  McLean  as  if  he  had  never 
heard  melody  before.     What  is  there  in  a  maiden's 
voice  ( if  beauty  be  her  portion)  when  that  voice  is 
lifted  up  to  call  aloud,  that  awakens  the  very  depths 
of  a  true  man's  heart  ?     Is  it  because  his  imagination 
lends  to  it  the  note  of  pleading,  or  fear,  or  helpless- 
ness ?-or  what  ?    Let  the  answer  hide,  as  forages 
past,  among  the  heavenly  mysteries. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  they  passed  together 
into  the  shadowy  driving  shed.  But  Martin  was  not 
there.  "Perhaps  he's  in  the  fawn  house,"  Hilda 
mused.    "  I'll  go  and  see." 

"Where  is  it? "the  man  interrupted;  "I'll  look 
myself,  if  you'll  tell  me." 

"Just  over  there,"  she  said-"  under  that  pine. 
Thank  you." 

He  started  thither.  And  Hilda,  with  the  woman 
instmct.  tarried  in  the  shadow.  What  keen  eyes 
those  were  that  followed  from  the  shade  .'-and  how 
well  she  used  them,  for  his  course  was  sidelong  to 


A  PARK  AMIDST  The  ROCKIES    133 

her;  and  there  was  nothing  about  Murray  McLean 
so  interesting  as  the  profile  view;  and  the  manly 
figure  was  so  straight  and  strong ;  and  the  step  so 
firm  and  buoyant ;  and  the  whole  being  of  the  man 
so  charged  with  magnetism  and  strength  and  possi- 
bility that  the  girl's  eyes  never  wandered  from  the 
stalwart  frame  till  it  was  lost  to  view. 

A  moment  later  he  appeared ;  and  a  swam,  pre- 
sumably the  desired  Martin,  was  at  his  heels. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  roared  the  menial  across  the  inter- 
vening space ;  "  was  ye  wantin'  me,  ma'am  ?  " 

The  girl's  voice  carried  back  like  a  bell.  "  Father 
wants  you  to  show  Mr.  McLean  over  the  place — and 
the  pigeons,  too,"  the  words  floating  as  buoyantly  as 
the  winged  thingi  themselves. 

"  I'm  shiniii'  the  harness,"  he  replied ;  "  it's  dirty, 
ma'am." 

The  girl  hesirated  ;  then  flung  back  another  word, 
mildly  protesting.     The  swain  seemed  about  to  yield. 

"  Well,"  she  called  again,  "  perhaps  you'd  better 
finish  your  work.     Maybe  I  can  go  myself." 

"  Never  mind,  ma'am — I  can  set  them  by  till  an- 
other time." 

"  Stay  at  your  harness,"  Murray  ordered  between 
his  teeth  ;  "  here's  a  dollar  for  you  ',[  you  stay  where 
you  are,"  fumbling  in  a  sadly  depleted  pocket  as  he 
spoke.     Pay-day  came  rarely  enough  on  the  railway. 


m 


S       .    ♦! 


i?4    7//«  SINGER  of  The  KOOIENAY 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  revised  the  avaricious  yokel,  in- 
wardly convulsed,  "  after  all,  ma'am,  p'raps  I'd  better 
do  the  liarncss -they're  all  wet  with  ile,  ma'am." 

Hilda  tried  to  frown  in  the  distance,  stepping  out 
intc  the  sun  ;  it  was  desirable  that  the  stranger  should 
behold  that  frown.  ••  Very  well."  she  called,  •'  111 
try  and  do  it  myself.  Please  come,  Mr.  McLean."  a 
little  beckoning  nod  apparent  as  the  slender  neck, 
white  as  the  fleece  in  heaven's  blue,  tilted  the  saucy 
head  just  a  little  backward. 
And  he  came. 

They  strolled  together  down   towards  a  kind  of 
marsh,  gathering  such  acquaintance  as  they  could 
while  they  walked.     From  the  very  start,  each  seemed 
to  be  fumbling  to  find  out  something  about  the  other ; 
they  spoke  of  the  weather,  and  the  mountains,  and 
he  deer  that  had  now  gone  off  to  feed—and  she 
asked  him  if  he  came  from  Ontario,  and  he  asked  in 
turn  if  she  had  ever  been  there.     And  each  looked 
when  the  other  was  not  supposed  to  know.     And 
both  were  young,  and  the  skies  above  were  blue,  and 
the  tides  within  were  warm—and  troubled  from  afar. 
A  few  minutes  later  they  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  hill  where  flowed  a  little  stream.     And  there, 
sure  enough,  were  the  tokens  of  that  sagacity  and 
insight,  that  industry  and  patience,  which,  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  non-human  world,  suggest  an 


A  PARK  AMIDST  The  ROCKIES  135 
almost  weird  relation  to  humankind.  Tlic  beaver 
dam  was  there,  visible  and  substantial.  The  chips, 
white  and  cle.  n,  we.e  lying  about,  scarcely  indented 
by  the  yleamin-  teeth  tliat  had  split  them  off.  And 
here  and  there,  all  ready  to  be  inlaid,  vere  the  little 
logs,  measured  with  almost  mathematical  exactness, 
that  must  presently  be  dragged  to  the  dam  and 
fitted  into  place. 

••  They'll  be  out  presently,"  the  girl  said,  smihng  at 
his  exclamations  of  wonder  as  he  moved  about  gazing 
at  the  tokens  of  ingenious  skill ;  «  they  only  work  at 
certain  times  of  day— and  it's  almost  time  now." 
"  Can  you  see  them  work  ?  "  asked  iMurray. 
"  Oh,  yes,  they're  wonderfully  tame.  Father  says 
they're  the  only  tame  ones  he  knows  of  anywhere— 
look !  "  she  whisi    "-ed,  "  there's  one  coming  now." 

Which  was  true  enough.  One  after  another  the 
crafty  creatures  emerged,  proceeding  to  their  toil 
without  fuss  or  delay,  apparently  oblivious  to  the 
presence  of  spectators. 

"  Wonderful,  wonderful ! "  Murray  exclaimed  after 
he  had  watched  them  a  while ;  "  and  the  beautiful 
thing  about  it  is  the  way  they  seem  to  enjoy  it.  I 
wish  I  could  relish  my  work  as  they  appear  to  do." 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him.  A  deep,  far- 
off  interest— such  as  only  experts  in  the  soul  can 
recognize— glowed    in    her   eyes.     And   hers   were 


136    The  S/MGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

beautiful  eyes;  perhaps,  too,  only  a  soul  specialibt 
would  liave  said  so  at  first  sight. 

"  VVliere  do  you  work  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly,  as  if 
she  xvould  ask  it. 

"  At  the  station,"  he  answered,  meeting  her  gaze 
with  eyes  as  intent  as  hers ;  "  I'm  night  watchman 
there  —and  general  factotum." 

The  girl  flushed  momentarily.  Probably  this  was 
more  due  to  his  manner  than  to  his  tidings—for  the 
man's  words  had  something  of  the  desperately  candid 
in  them,  a  sort  of  defiant  note,  as  if  he  would  test 
and  challenge    .    by  the  intelligence. 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his.  «•  Then  I  should  think 
you'd  be  sleeping  now,"  she  said— and  he  swiftly 
wondered  if  he  were  deceiving  himself;  or  did  he 
really  catch  the  far-off  breath  of  solicitude  in  the 
tone  ?  "  Surely  it's  a  hard  way  to  spend  the  nights  ?  " 
she  added,  in  a  voice  that  tried  its  best  to  indicate 
she  didn't  really  care. 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "  I've  spent  them  in  far  worse 
fashions,"  he  answered,  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers  again 
in  the  same  defiant  way  as  before. 

Then  followed  a  long  pause.  "Wonderful  how 
those  little  creatures  can  drag  tiie  trunk  of  a  tree  like 
that,"  she  broke  it  to  exclaim,  nodding  towards  the 
field  of  industry, 

"  You  know,  I'm  a  student,"  he  pursued,  heedless 


A  PARK  AMIDST  The  ROCKIES    137 

of  the  dijiression     "  I  was  a  student,  at  Queen's 
College— and  I  left  there." 

The  girl's  face  brightened  with  unmistakable  inter- 
est. "  I've  often  heard  of  Queen's  -it's  my  favourite 
of  all  the  colleges,"  she  said.  •■  I  always  heard  it  was 
the  poor  man's  school." 

Murray  unconsciously  winced  a  little.  "  It's  none 
the  worse  for  that,"  he  retorted  a  little  vigorously. 

"  That's  the  reason  I  like  it,"  she  replied  promptly ; 
"  you  had  to  leave  for  your  health,  I  suppose  ?  So 
many  students  overwork  themselves  but  they  have 
to  pay  up  for  it  later,"  she  moralized,  shaking  a  very 
pretty  head. 

A  light  breeze  stirred  the  air,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  golden  tresses,  unsecured,  were  blowing  about 
her  brow  or  over  the  delicate  ear  that  tapered  away 
to  its  tint  of  pink.     And  the  maiden's  frame  was  tall 
and  strong ;  full-breasted,  with  strength  and  tender- 
ness moving  there.     And  her  tuition  had  been  among 
the  hills,  scornful  of  trifling  things  beneath,  and  her 
outlook  had   been   to  the  Eternal.     So  that  there 
seemed  to  flow  about  her  the  very  atmosphere  of 
what  was  natural,  and  true,  and  pure,  all  unmoulded 
as  she  was  by  the  narrow  tenets  of  some  narrow 
circle,  her  whole  face  and  bearing  attesting  that  she 
had  dwelt  among  primal  things— gloriously  non-con- 
formed. 


I'h     '"  4 


It 


I 

1 

138    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOIENAY 

Perhaps  that  was  v  \\y  tlicse  last  simple  noids  of 
hers  hurtled  in,  iar  in,  and  lodged  lhcn)hclves  in  his 
heart  with  a  mysterious  pain.     Or  perhaps  the  words 
were  only  the  hi^jhway  along  which  her  soul  had 
found  a  path  ;  so  buicere,  so  unarjected,  so  unsophis- 
ticated as  they  were.     l-"or  there  was  in  them  some- 
thing   of  primal   simplicity-  to  use  that  fell  word 
again,  which  nobody  can  translate— spoken  in   'cntle 
earnestness  as  though  she  really  believed  m  him,  and 
was  sorry  for  lum,  and  hoped  that  he  might  soon  be 
well.      Or    perhaps   it   was    because   she   happened 
to  glance  at  him  as  she  spoke,  and  his  eyes  met  hers, 
finding  there  nothing  but  guilelessncos  and  reality— 
and  perhaps  what  caused  the  pai;    was  this,  that  he 
knew,  as  she  could  not  know,  all  the  hidden  things 
in  thrit  past  she  was  interpreting  so  kindly. 

His  face  was  flushed  and  hot.  "  Yes,"  he  said  as 
soon  as  he  could ;  "  yes— they  pay  up  for  lots  of 
things.  Yes,  lots  of  things  besides  overwork— of 
which  I  was  never  guilty." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  «  I've  been  a  prize  idler 
myself,"  she  said  with  mock  contempt,  tapping  her 
bosom  as  she  spoke,  the  right  arm  across  her  breast 
after  a  fashion  that  reverent  eyes  have  often  marked 
in  the  eternal  womanly.  "  So  you  needn't  confess  to 
me— but  I'm  going  to  reform,"  she  went  on,  tossing 
her  head  back  gaily  in  a  very  unbecoming  way  for  a 


W   P/iRK  AMIDST   The   ROCKIES    H9 

retorincr.  •<  I'm  not  fT"inR  to  have  those  wretched 
little  creatures  there,"  smiffinfj  savagely  towards  the 
furry  toilers,  "  rebuking  nie  all  my  life.  That's  a 
fact,"  she  went  on,  commanding  a  very  serious  tone; 
"  I've  never  done  a  really  useful  thing  in  all  my  life. ' 

Me  stooped,  picked  up  a  chip  and  threw  it  towards 
the  stream.  "  1  wish  that  were  the  worst  thing  1 
could  say  about  my  career,"  he  returned,  and  the  de- 
fiant note  was  in  his  voice -(what  ailed  the  man, 
anj'way  ?)--"  it's  the  things  a  fellow  has  done  that 
ket'i)  him  awake  at  nights.  At  least,"  with  a  bitter 
little  laugh,  "  that's  why  /  don't  sleep  any  these 
nights.  If  a  fellow  could  only  ship  all  his  old  memo- 
ries like  he  does  the  baggage— and  send  them  off 
with  the  trunks— what  a  happy  man  he'd  be  ! " 

Then  he  stopped,  abruptly.  Inwardly  he  felt  that 
he  had  gone  too  far.  Yet  he  was  glad.  She  turned 
a  qvnck  searching  glance  on  him;  then  her  lips 
opened  as  if  some  fateful  word,  or  equally  fateful 
question,  were  waiting  there.  But  his  own  look  was 
so  full  of  stern  reality—as  though  he  cared  not  what 
she  asked  or  knew,  almost  as  if  to  say  she  had  a  right 
to  know— that  her  eyes  fell  before  it,  and  she  was 
still. 

"  Let's  go  and  see  the  pigeons,"  she  said  coldly  a 
moment  later.  "  And  we  mustn't  be  long— I  think 
mother  needs  rue." 


'j^J^  >jC  », 


i 


THE   WAY   OF  A   SOUL 

THE  path  they  now  took  led  them  some  dis- 
tance  backward   towards  the  house.    As 
they  drew  nearer,  for  the  most  part  in  si- 
lence. Hilda's  keen  eyes  suddenly  discerned  a  figure 
coming  in  their  direction. 

"  That's  mother."  she  announced,  her  hand  shading 
her  eyes.  "  and  I  guess  she  wants  me.  as  I  said. 
Come  on— I  want  you  to  meet  her." 

"Were  you  looking  for  me.  mother?"  the  girl 
asked  C.S  they  came  within  speaking  distance;  "  have 
you  been  needing  me  ?  " 

"  Oh.  no,"  her  mother  answered  absently,  her  eyes 
fixed  in  an  interrogative  way  on  the  stranger  ;  "  only 
Mr.  Holmes  is  at  the  house-and  he  was  asking  for 
you,  of  course." 

What  was  there  in  those  last  two  words,  appar- 
ently so  innocent,  to  make  Murray  McLean  start  so 
suddenly  ?  Wonderful,  is  it  not,  how  two  trifling 
words,  mere  privates  in  the  ranks,  can  make  a  man 
oblivious  to  the  glories  of  an  autumn  morning,  to  the 
splendour  of  surrounding  mountains,  to  the  beauty 

140 


^-i.w\.    ;*-. 


The  IV AY  of  a  SOUL  141 

of  distant  cascades  gleaming  like  silvery  curtains  in 
the  morning  light  ? 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  girl.  "  Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Mc- 
Lean—he's a  student,  from  Queen's  College;  and 
father  wanted  him  to  see  round  the  place and  Mar- 
tin was  busy  with  the  harness." 

Mrs.  Ludlow  advanced  cordially  with  outstretched 
hand.  A  few  words  of  greeting  were  given  and  re- 
turned. 

After  which :  "  And  I  suppose  you're  out  here  for 
your  vacation,  Mr.  McLean  ?  "  she  enquired ;  ••  but 
isn't  it  rather  late— hasn't  the  college  opened  again  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  Murray  answered  promptly ;  "  but  my 
college  days  are  over— I'm  night  watchman  at  the 
railway  station  n:w,"  turning  a  very  serene  pair  of 
eyes  on  his  new  acquaintance. 

Whereat  mountain,  and  morning  light,  and  silvery 
cascade  all  disappeared  from  before  the  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Ludlow.    "  Oh  !  "  she  said,  almost  gasped,  the  words 
touched  with  frost,  still  surveying  with  wonder  the 
attractive  face,  the  well-trained  form,  both  so  signifi- 
cant of  all  that  marks  the  gentleman — if  she  knew, 
and  she  reckoned  she  did  know,  just  what  consti- 
tutes that  particular  article.    "Oh!"  she  repeated, 
the  frost  deepening.    "  Hilda,  I  think  you'll  have  to 
ask  to  be  excused — you'll  excuse  my  daughter,  sir  ?  " 
with    a    slight    bow  that    Mrs.   Ludlow  had    not 


142    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

learned  for  nothing;  "I  think  Mr.  Holmes  is  won- 
dering what  has  kept  you  so  long— and  I'll  send 
Martin." 

She  turned  imperiously,  without  further  notice  of 
their  guest,  and  began  retracing  her  steps  towards  the 
house. 

Hilda's  face  was  gray.  Suddenly  her  resolve 
seemed  to  be  taken.  "  He  really  can't  come,  mother," 
she  remonstrated;  "you  know  how  particular  father 
is  about  the  harness.  And  I'm  almost  through— and 
you  may  tell  Mr.  Holmes  he  can  just  wait,"  a  note  of 
annoyance  in  the  voice.  "  Come  on,"  she  said  in  a 
low  tone  to  Murray ;  "  you  see  1  can't  be  long." 

In  a  iQw  minutes  they  were  beside  the  pigeon 
house.  Adjacent  to  it  was  a  great  space,  all  carefully 
enclosed  by  netting;  while  without,  and  above  it, 
hundreds  of  the  airy  creatures  were  circling  in  grace- 
ful curves  or  resting  placidly  on  poles  or  trees,  or 
daintily  strutting  about  while  their  soft  gutturals  filled 
the  air. 

"  Don't  they  fly  away  ? "  Murray  enquired,  trying 
his  best  to  appear  interested,  though  his  thoughts 
were  all  with  the  retreating  figure  in  the  distance. 

"  Almost  never,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  although  we 
had  a  really  wonderful  experience  about  a  month  ago. 
Father  imported  a'pair  from  Boston— some  rare  breed 
—and  they  came  here  all  shut  up  in  a  box,  in  an  ex- 


The  WAY  of  a  SOUL  14) 

press  car.     Well,  after  a  few  days  they  seemed  to  be 
so  much  at  home  Martin  let  them  out  to  fly  around 
with  the  others— and  do  you  know  what  they  did  ?  " 
"  No— what  did  they  do  ?  " 

"  They  just  flew  straight  up  in  the  air,  as  if  there 
weren't  another  pigeon  in  the  Kootenay ;  and  they 
circled  round  and  round  about  a  dozen  times ;  and 
then,"  the  large  eyes  filled  with  wonder  like  a  child's, 
"  then  they  just  started  out,  due  East,  like  a  streak  of 
hghtning.  An]  then— what  do  you  think  then  ?  " 
He  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  that  was  on  a  Friday— and  on  Monday  night 
father  got  a  telegram  saying  they  were  back  in  Bos- 
ton, at  the  very  place  they  came  from  !     Wasn't  that 
wonderful  ?  " 
'♦  Instinct,"  said  Murray  laconically. 
"  Instinct  rubbish ! "   the   girl   returned  contemp- 
tuously ;  "  it  worries  me,  the  wise  way  people  try  to 
dispose  of  it  like  that.     It's  a  mystery,  that's  what  it 
is  ;  it's  something  preachers  ought  to  talk  about.     It's 
just  as  wonderful  as  the  faith  they  preach  about  so 
much ;  there's  nothing  in  the  way  of  a  soul— I  mean, 
the  spiritual  way,"  blushing  slightly  as  she  spoke— 
"  that's  any  more  incredible,  any  more  unexplaina- 
ble,  than  that.     It  proves  all  the  unseen  world— and 
the   unseen   faculties— that   are   all   about   us.     But 
everybody  just  says  '  instinct.'  and  thinks  no  more 


144    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

about  it,"  she  concluded  scornfully,  the  white  forehead 
all  knitted  now  with  the  psychology  of  the  moment. 
"  It's  a  cheap  way  of  travelling,  anyhow,"  Murray 
responded  irreverently,  while  the  girl  frowned  at  the 
words.  "  I  wouldn't  be  long  getting  home  if  I  could 
clip  it  off  the  way  they  do." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  back  then  ?  "  she  asked.    The 
frown  was  all  gone  now. 
"  No,"  he  said. 
"  Oh ! "  said  she. 

"  But  all  the  same,"  he  went  on,  •'  I  believe  if  I  had 
to  be  anything,  anything  else  than  a  man,  I'd  sooner 
be  a  pigeon,"  as  he  watched  the  airy  flight  of  a  love- 
lorn pair  that  were  taking  their  morning  outing  in 
company. 

"  I  wouldn't,"  she  returned  with  equal  earnestness. 
"  I'd  rather  be  a  beaver,"  nodding  in  the  direction  of 
the  dam,  "They're  some  use  in  the  world— and 
they  have  some  work  to  do— and  they  love  it,  that's 
best  of  all." 

He  turned  daringly,  controlling  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  with  an  effort.  «'  You  shan't,"  he  said  sternly; 
"  you'll  be  a  pigeon." 

"And  why,  sir,  may  I  ask?"  the  lithe  form 
straightening  up  defiantly. 

His  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  the  love-lorn  pair 
above.     They  were  fairly  between   him  and  a  sil- 


riie  WAY  of  a  SOUL 


M5 


very  curtain  on  the  mountainside ;  beyond  tliem,  high 
above  both,  was  a  fleecy  floating  cloud— and  all  alike 
was  touched  with  golden  light.  "  Because  I'd  be  one 
myself,"  he  mused  absently,  still  staring  at  the  sepa- 
rate pair ;  "  and,  anyhow— they're  beautiful." 

The  girl  bit  her  lip  till  the  colour  left  it.  "  I  guess 
I'll  have  to  go,"  she  said  abruptly ;  "  Mr.  Holmes  is 
waiting  for  me.  You  know  the  way  back  to  the  gate 
you  came  in  at,  Mr.  McLean— that  is,  if  you're  going 
back  the  same  way  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  still  as  if  a  thousand  miles 
away.  «'  Yes,  I  want  to  go  over  every  bit  of  it  again 
—and  I  know  the  way.  And  I  can  never  thank  you 
enough.  Miss  Ludlow,"  lifting  his  hat  and  bowing  in 

farewell;  "  the  whole  thing " 

"  I  really  can  hardly  afford  the  time,"  she  broke  in 
a  little  petulantly,  "  but  I  believe  I'U  have  to  go  with 
you  as  far  as  the  gate.  There's  a  young  moose  some- 
where in  the  grounds— father  got  an  Indian  to  bring 
it — and  he  just  hates  strangers,"  she  declared  sav- 
agely; "I  don't  suppose  he  could  hurt  you  much, 
but  he  might  try — anyhow,  he's  getting  horns. 
Come  on — we'll  have  to  hurry,"  as  she  turned  and 
started  towards  the  intervening  grove  of  trees. 

He  followed,  jauntily  now — for  he  resented  the 
turn  things  had  taken.  It  was  well  assumed,  this  air 
of  careless  independence,  whistling  to  himself  as  he 


146    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
swung  along  beside  her.     And  it  seemed  to  annoy 
the  girl.     "  You've  grown  very  gay  all  of  a  sudden  " 
she  said  with  a  sidelong  glance;  "  but  you  shouldn't 
Whistle  till  you're  out  of  the  woods,  you  know." 

"  It's  these  glorious  trees,"  he  answered ;  "  a  scene 
like  this  always  stirs  up  all  the  music  that's  in  me- 
only  I  hope  I  haven't  been  rude.     But  this  kind  of 
thing  always  makes  me  want  to  whistle,  or  sing  or 
something  like  that-by  the  way.  you  didn't  know  I 
could  sing,  did  you?"  he  added  banteringly  as  he 
suddenly  stood  still,  turning  his   back   almost  full 
upon  her.     Then  a  moment  later,  sweetly  floating 
out  upon  the  sylvan  scene,  the  words  came  low  and 
clear,  athrob  with  a  sudden  passion  that  made  the 
girl  start  with  wonder : 


"  I  have  heard  the  mavis  singing 
His  love  song  to  the  morn ; 
I  have  seen  the  dewdrop  clinging 
To  the  rose  just  newly  born." 

He  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun.  '<  Say 
Where's  that  .varlike  moose  of  yours  ? "  he  began' 
carelessly-^.  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'll  think  some 
one's  trying  to  call  him."  breaking  into  a  rather 
forced  laugh  as  he  spoke. 

But  the  girl  stood  in  her  tracks,  enchanted.    "  Oh  ! " 


The   IV A  Y  of  a  SOUL  147 

she  exclaimed,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  in  her 
agitation,  "  oh — why  ?  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Tell  you  what  ?  "  he  enquired  gravely. 

"  About  that — about  your  voice.  Oh,  it's  beauti- 
ful, beautiful ! "  she  went  on  in  a  kind  of  ecstatic  can- 
dour, her  glowing  eyes  fixed  on  him.  And  as  his 
own  met  them  a  surge  of  passion  overswept  him 
from  head  to  foot ;  the  mighty  trees,  the  chirping 
birds,  the  towering  hills  beyond,  the  all-encircling 
sunshine— everything  seemed  beautiful  and  holy  to 
him  as  he  looked  into  the  far  depths  of  the  eyes  that 
were  fixed  on  his. 

"  You're  very  kind,"  he  answered,  more  carelessly 
than  before.  "  But  it  doesn't  amount  to  as  much  as 
you  seem  to  think ;  although  "—and  now  a  broad 
smile  wreathed  his  face—"  although,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I've  been  offered  an  engagement.  So  what  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  " 

"  Splendid,"  she  responded,  now  beginning  to 
move  on ;  "  perfectly  splendid !  Tell  me  about  it— 
an  operatic  company,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered  bluntly—"  religion— it's  those 
revival  meetings  they're  holding  in  the  Presb}'terian 
Church.  The  man  that's  running  them  wanted  me 
to  accept  an  engagement  as  solo  singer,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  Come  on — I'm  afraid  that  moose  may  get 
us." 


I 


'48  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
She  answered  never  a  word,  stealing  a  furtive 
glance,  mystified  at  this  strange  new  acquaintance 
she  had  made.  But  the  melody  kept  ringing  in  her 
heart,  and  every  twig  and  /lower  seemed  to  be  differ- 
ent  for  ,t.  They  were  getting  near  the  gate  before 
she  spoke. 

"I'm  going  to  some  of  those  meetings  myself 
she  sa.d.  the  voice  as  chastened  now  as  it  had  been 
imperious  before. 

"  ^°°^  ^°^  y°"'"  he  returned,  as  though  he  were 
speaking  to  a  child;  "maybe  I  will  myself  some 
^me-though  I  don't  just  take  my  religion  that  way. 
Oh.  aren't  those  beautiful?"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
stooping  eagerly  to  pluck  something  at  the  base  of  a 
great  pine;  "  simply  lovely  !_and  I  thought  it  was 
too  late  for  anything  like  this  to  be  blooming  now  " 
His  face  was  turned  from  her  as  he  plucked  the 
sweet  survivors  of  the  autumn;   then  he  searched 
in  his  pocket  for  an  envelope  and  gently  laid  the 
flowers  away  within  it. 

"What  are  you  going  to  keep  those  for?"  she 
asked  impulsively,  catching  at  her  words  as  though 
she  would  recall  them  when  it  was  too  late 

"  Shan't  keep  them  at  all."  he  answered,  his  eyes 
st.ll  searching  the  ground  ;  "  I'll  press  them  and  send 
them  a^vay  this  afternoon.  I  know  somebody  that'll 
just  love  them." 


*t 


'•'■.ti 


The  WA  Y  of  a  SOUL  149 

Her  lips  opened  again— then  she  checked  herself 
and  moved  onward  to  the  gate.  She  held  it  open  as 
he  passed  through,  grave  and  grateful  in  his  farewell. 

"  But  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  see  the  baby  beaver," 
she  said  with  downcast  eyes ;  "  I  guess  it  was  asleep 
this  morning— but  if  you  care  to  come  again  some 
time,  I'm  almost  sure  you'd  see  it.  And  we'd  be 
glad  to  show  you  the  squirrel-house,  too — father 
would  show  you  both  those  things,  or  Martin. 
Either  father  or  Martin  would  be  glad,  I  know," 
struggling  to  stem  the  colour  she  felt  was  rising  in 
her  face. 

He  thanked  her  seriously  and  went  on,  the  white 
envelope  still  in  his  hand. 

And  as  the  maiden  went  back  through  the  dewy 
park  her  eyes  were  much  upon  the  ground;  and  once 
or  twice  she  murmured  to  herself :  "  I'm  sure  those 
flowers  were  for  his  mother ;  yes,  I  could  tell  from 
his  face  that  it  wasn't  anybody  else — I'  -^st  sure 

it  was  his  mother." 


XI 

A    FRIENDLY  FEUD 

AS  Murray  McLean  mad^  his  way  back  to 
liis  shabby  room  at  the  Commercial  Hotel, 
the  very  angels  seemed   to  be  his  escort.' 
For  he  beheld  about  him  a  new  heaven  and  a  new- 
earth  wherein  dwelt  so  much  of  which  he  had  never 
dreamed,     It  were  foolish  to  imply  that  any  definite 
plan— hope,  that  is  to  say— had  been  born  within 
him   as   a   result  of  the  accident  of  the  morning. 
Nothing  had  place  in  his  heart,  of  purpose  or  pros- 
pect or  even  desire ;   but  there  ran  riot  there    he 
strange  and  nameless  thrill  that  never  makes  a     jnt 
to  the  human  heart  but  once,  the  sensation,  h^  .ven- 
born,  that  comes  to  a  man  when  first  he  knows ! 
And  yet.  what  had  he  come  to  know?    Noihing, 
nothing  at  all. 

But  It  was  morning  !  And  he  had  heard  music  ! 
And  the  great  waterfall  in  life's  monotonous  stream 
had  flung  it  spray  at  last  upward  towards  the 
heavens  !  A  strange  feeling  possessed  him.  such  as 
a  convalescent  might  know,  for  whom  the  dark  days 
of  suffering  are  past !  or  a  prisoner,  to  whom  tidings 

150 


A    FRIENDL  Y  FEUD 


151 


of  release  liave  come  I  or  an  exile,  who  at  length  has 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  shores  of  his  fatherland  I 
Yet  no  one  of  these  things  suggested  itself  to  the 
mind  of  Murray  McLean  as  he  wended  his  way  back 
to  the  apartment  he  nuvv  called  home.  But  he  was 
Ijappy— happy,  because  he  had  seen,  and  heard,  and 
felt.  And  because  he  knew — what  he  had  never 
known  before— that,  possessed  or  denied  as  all  the 
fates  might  order,  there  was  yet  in  the  universe  one 
Presence  that  could  fill  all  the  firmament  with  light. 

The  methodical  will  smile ;  and  the  deliberate  will 
doubt;  and  the  majority  of  lovers  will  disagree, 
stoutly  contending  that  such  sweet  revelation 
never  comes  so  suddenly,  never  sets  up  in  a  day 
its  throne  within  the  heart — in  an  hour — even  in 
a  minute.  But  their  poor  cold  theories  can  be  suc- 
cessfully disputed  and  defied  and  eternally  put 
to  rout  by  all  the  blessed  whose  experience  (one 
summer's  morning  long  ago,  ah,  me!)  is  far 
above  all  argument,  and  scornful  of  all  reason,  anr'. 
evermore  persuaded  that  what  happened  m  it  have 
come  to  pass!  After  all,  has  not  any  c  plosion 
worthy  of  the  name,  material  or  spiritual  come  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ? 

Wherefore  Murray  knew.  And  when  he  sought 
his  couch  that  morning  it  v.as  with  but  little  hope 
of  sleep.     Nor  did  he  care.     A  strange  defiance  filled 


■"^:>L^^ 


''^, 


■ 


f 


i'y2    The  S/S'J-  R  of  The  K007ENAY 

his  soui.     Wh;    •        had  made  ducks  and  drakes  of 
other  days  i    f'  <  importunities  I    And  what  if  he 

was  a  nij^ht       .  ' 
what  if  hfc's      III  . 
— still  lay  gr  j> 
of  these  tliii 


IV 


eyes  have  sec     U  c 
felt  was  this,  th.»-:  life 


a  at  a  railway  station  !  And 
loral  a'ld  of  every  other  kind 
re  h'  n  '  Wiiat  matters  any 
w.i!,  to  the  man  whose 
/  All  Murray  knew  and 
jw  before  him — that  he 
was  only  begin. ling— thai  lie  would  be  worthy;  yes, 
worthy,  true  jad  pure  and  faithful  in  every  word 
and  act.  With  all  of  which  he  felt  the  joy  of  the 
conqueror — in  advance. 

Yes— and  aJas!~in  advance.  Fatal  joy!  satis- 
faction premature  and  ominous!  Life's  gladness  is 
a  tortuous  stream,  mostly  made  up  of  eddies. 

The  evening  had  come,  and  Murray  was  descend- 
ing the  narrow  stairs  that  led  to  the  office  of  the 
hotel,  when  he  was  accosted  by  a  boy  coming  up- 
ward, a  '•  call-boy,"  with  a  message  in  his  hand  ad- 
dressed to  himself.  He  hurriedly  opened  it,  moving 
downward  to  the  light.  Its  tidings  were  brief  and 
painfully  to  the  point.  The  Railway  Company  would 
not  require  his  services  further— and  such  wages  as 
were  due  him  would  be  paid  on  his  calling  at  the 
office. 

Stung  to  the  quick,  smarting  under  the  humilia- 
tion, his  first  act  was  to  hurry  over  to  the  station 


ImI 


# 


f    a 


A    I  RIENDLY   FEUD 


i53 


on!/  a  square  distant,  and  to  demand  an  instant  ex- 
planation. With  what  result,  everybody  knows  who 
is  familiar  with  dismissals  in  railroad  life.  Where- 
fore, after  a  few  hot  words  which  the  surly  deputy 
of  the  absent  superintendent  pretended  not  to  hear, 
he  returned  to  the  hotel  and  took  his  place  moodily 
on  a  chair  in  the  lobby,  amid  the  miscellany  of 
loungers  that  usually  adorn  that  particular  locality  in 
a  Western  tavern. 

There  it  was  that  the  tide  began  to  ebb.  The 
hideous  revulsion  of  feehng.  so  often  consequent  on 
an  exalted  mood,  seemed  now  to  cotne  upon  liim. 
Disappointment,  resentment,  shock  of  soul,  all 
blended  with  the  earlier  excitement  of  the  day  to 
make  the  hour  one  of  peculiar  peril  for  Murray 
McLean.  Me  arose,  tired  of  tlie  gabbling  company, 
and  walked  to  tlie  window,  his  eyes  finding  rest  on 
the  silent  peaks  now  shadow-robed  in  the  evening 
light.  But  to-night  they  stood  distant  and  forbid- 
ding; sternly  indifferent  now,  those  very  cliffs  that 
in  the  morning  light  had  seemed  to  lure  and  beckon 
to  their  radiant  heights  ;  how  unapproachable  they 
seemed  now  !  and  how  aloof  from  the  pettj-  con- 
cerns of  time,  grandly  elusive  as  they  appeared  to 
drift  in  ghostly  shadow  towards  the  sky  ! 

He  turned  from  the  window  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  impatienre,  as  though  the  distant  dignitaries  had 


154    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
dismissed  him ;  yet  that  to  which  he  turned  was  as 
repellent  as  before— and  a  deeper  loneliness  settled 
down  upon  him. 

Suddenly  a  voice,  not  altogether  unfamiliar,  fell  on 
his  ear.  "  I  say,  Mr.  McLean,  I  want  a  word  with 
you  alone." 

He  turned  quickly  and  found  himself  looking  into 
the  face  of  Mr.  Montague  Holmes.  They  were  not 
absolute  strangers,  a  few  sentences  having  been  ex- 
changed between  them  since  Murray  had  taken  up 
his  abode  at  the  Commercial. 

"  I'm  at  your  service,"  Murray  responded,  by  no 
means  reluctant.  Indeed,  any  such  interruption  to 
his  mood  and  his  surroundings  was  more  than  wel- 
come just  then.  •■  Shall  we  sit  down  ?  "  as  he  turned 
towards  a  couple  of  vacant  chairs. 

"  No,"  responded  the  Englishman ;  "  come  on  up 
to  my  room— it's  nice  and  comfortable  there." 

Which  Murray  found  to  be  a  quite  accurate  de- 
scription of  the  apartment  to  which  he  was  conducted. 
"  Take  a  chair,"  Holmes  said  as  they  entered—"  and 
a  cigar;  they  always  go  well  together.  And  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  wanted  to  speak  about  without  further 
parley.  There's  a  little  favour  I  want  to  ask  of  you, 
McLean-we'll  cut  out  the  formalities— and  it's  this.' 
The  Masons  here  are  going  to  have  a  smoker  a  week 
from  to-night,  and  I've  undertaken  to  look  out  for 


A    FRIENDLY   FEUD 


155 


the  most  of  the  programme.  Well,  I  want  j'<7k,  that's 
the  plain  English  of  it.  As  you  may  surmise,  I've 
heard  you  warbling  a  bit  about  the  hotel  here,  and  of 
course  I  know  you're  quite  a  singist ;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it's  surprising,  the  number  of  people  who  have 
got  on  to  that  already.  Now,  I  want  you  to  help  me 
out,  Mac,"  he  concluded  amiably,  leaning  forward 
towards  the  other ;  "  I  want  you  to  give  us  a  couple 
of  songs  that  night.     What  d'ye  say  to  it,  eh  ?  " 

Murray  was  obviously  pleased ;  and  only  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  intervened  before  he  had  given  his 
consent.  For  which  ue  Englishman  thanked  him 
cordially,  then  led  the  talk  into  genctal  chan.cls. 

Nearly  an  hour  having  thus  passed,  and  Mr. 
Holmes  being  in  his  most  genial  mood,  Murray  was 
at  length  led  into  a  recital  of  his  present  difficulty, 
and  a  little  of  his  past  experience,  to  this  new-found 
friend. 

In  the  middle  of  his  story  the  Englishman,  evi- 
dently interested,  suddenly  rang  the  bell.  A  boy 
answered  it  a  moment  later.  "  Bring  whiskey  and 
soda  for  two— bring  a  bottle,  a  sealed  bottle,"  or- 
dered Mr.  Holmes  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
prescribing  a  panacea  for  all  ills  ;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  his  idea  of  consolation  for  a  wounded  spirit  was 
rather  strictly  confined  to  that  particular  prescription. 
"  It  seems  to  be  a  devilish  hard  country  for  youthful 


1:1 
I 


t 


156    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

tenderfeet,"  he  moralized  as  the  boy  disappeared,  re- 
verting to  Murray's  story— "and  equally  hard  for 
both  sexes,"  he  added  with  a  coarse  laugh.    "Al- 
though,"  he  went  on,  the  eyes   coarsening  as  he 
spoke,  "  this  cursed  lack  of  employment  bears  a  good 
deal  heavier  on  the  boys  than  it  does  on  the  girls. 
Tfuy  don't  find  much  trouble  in  getting  a  job,"  he 
added  with  a  sinister  leer  and  laugh.    "  I  heard  to- 
day—or was  it  yesterday  ?— about  a  case  of  one  un- 
sophisticated maiden  that  had  just  struck  Uie  town— 
and  from  all  I  can  hear  they  found  her  a  position, 
where  she  won't  have  much  manual  work  to  do- 
just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  burgh,  you  know,"  he 
went  on,  winking  at  Murray  and  pointing  with  his 
cigar  in  the  direction  of  the  window ;  "  a  couple  of 
sharks  took  her  in  hand  all  right— seems  a  cursed 
sharue,  too,  in  some  ways ;  an  innocent  country  girl 
like  that— although  I  suppose  it  might  as  well  happen 
sooner  as  later,"  he  added,  with  a  smirk  Murray  was 
at  a  loss  to  understand.     "  Seems  to  be  the  final  doom 
out  here,  anyhow,  of  poor  doves  like  that.     What  in 
blazes  d'ye  suppose  is  keeping  that  boy?     Hello, 
what  makes  you  look  so  agitated,  McLean?"  he 
flung  at  his  guest  as  he  moved  out  towards  the  hall ; 
"  not  interested  in  that  dove  case,  are  you  ?  "  with  a 
burst  of  coarse  laughter  as  he  peered  down  the  hall 
for  the  tardy  boy. 


A    FRIENDLY  FEUD 


»57 


Murray  sat  where  he  was,  not  knowing  whether  to 
be  altogether  mystified  or  altogether  horrified ;  some 
glimmering  of  the  man's  meaning  could  not  but 
break  upon  him,  and  yet  his  mind  recoiled  against 
it,  refusing  to  give  it  entrance.  He  felt  himself  at 
sea ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  varied  experiences  and 
conflicting  emotions  of  the  day  had  been  almost  too 
much  for  him. 

But  he  had  little  time  for  thought.  A  minute  or 
two  later  Holmes  was  back,  in  his  hand  the  tray  he 
had  taken  from  the  long-expected  boy.  "  Here,  Mc- 
Lean," he  said  as  he  came  in;  "here's  something 
that  will  make  you  forget  all  the  cares  and  jobs  and 
Railway  Superintendents  that  ever  made  life  hideous. 
This  is  the  Simon  Pure  article,  mind  you — never 
been  uncorked — you're  never  safe  in  this  God-for- 
saken country  if  the  bottle's  once  opened,  never 
know  what  they  put  in  it  afterwards.  It's  like  the 
seven  evil  spirits  that  returned  more  deadly  than  the 
first.  Here,  pour  for  yourself,"  as  he  handed  the  now 
opened  bottle  towards  Murray  ;  "  and  make  free  with 
it — I'll  look  the  other  way — there's  no  Scotchman 
about  me,"  indulging  a  gale  of  merriment  the  while. 

"  Not  any,  thanks,"  his  guest  answered,  the  swift 
decision  soon  taken  in  his  mind  ;  "  I'm  on  the  water 
wagon  now — been  on  it  for  quite  a  while — wish  to 
God  I'd  climbed  on  long  before  I  did.     No,  thanks, 


J*-2l. 


i 


I ' 


' 


153    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Holmes — I  absolutely  won't,"  as  he  pushed  the  black 
thing  back  from  him. 

Holmes  pressed  the  matter  for  a  little.  But 
Murraj-'s  voice  began  to  develop  a  considerable  edge 
— whereupon  the  former  yielded.  "  Well,  perhaps 
you're  right,"  lie  said,  reaching  for  his  own  glass, 
••  but  there's  no  pick-me-up  in  the  world  to  equal  it. 
Well,  here's  looking  at  you — and  success  to  your 
vocal  spasms  a  week  from  to-night ! "  as  he  tossed 
off  a  generous  potation. 

Then  he  sat  down,  tossed  off  another,  and  anotlier 
— still  another.  As  these  repeated  treatments  began 
to  take  effect.  Holmes  became  more  and  more  garru- 
lous and  communicative;  more  and  more  natural,  too, 
with  all  that  that  implies.  Whereupon,  when  a  half 
hour  or  so  had  passed,  he  was  completely  off  his  guard. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  McLean,"  he  suddenly  announced, 
rising  impulsively  from  his  chair,  *  I'll  tell  you  where 
you  can  get  a  job — ^just  occurred  to  me  this  minute — 
if  we  went  together  and  saw  old  Ludlow,  he  could 
give  you  a  post  all  right.  We'd  go  right  up  to  the 
house  now,  only  I  happen  to  know  the  old  foll-s  are 
out  at  some  kind  of  a  shine  to-night,  a  silver  wedding 
or  something  of  that  sort,  and  they'll  be  out  fearfully 
late  for  them.  But  the  old  geezer  has  no  end  of 
interests — and  of  course  he'd  do  anything  for  me.  I 
kind  of  belong  to  the  family,  you  know,"  he  went  on 


A    FRIENDLY   FEUD 


159 


with  a  thick  laugh ;  "  out  in  this  wild  and  woolly  coun- 
try a  fellow  has  to  do  the  best  he  can  in  the  way  of 
matrimony.  And  that  daughter  of  his  is  the  finest 
girl  in  the  Kootenay~I  ought  to  know,  I've  tried 
plenty  of  'em,"  throwing  himself  back  with  low, 
gurgling  laughter. 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  of  that  kind," 
Murray  said,  hardly  knowing  what  else  to  say  and 
with  difficulty  concealing  his  disgust.  "  You  were 
there  to-day — in  the  house,  I  mean — when  Miss 
Ludlow  and  I  were  in  the  park.  Her  mother  came 
out  and  said  you  were  there." 

Holmes  sat  up  with  sudden  vigour.  And  a  dark 
and  bodeful  expression  came  into  his  eyes.  "  Was 
that  you  ?  "  he  demanded  hoarsely ;  "  I  knew  some 
fool  snipe  was  there — and  walked  with  her  through 
the  grove.  But  I  couldn't  get  it  out  of  her  who  it 
was.  And  I'll  take  the  liberty  of  asking  what  it 
meant,  sir? — cursed  strange  proceeding,  if  you  ask 
me. 

By  this  time  Murray  was  also  sitting  very  straight. 
The  terse  definition  of  himself  had  doubtless  provoked 
that.  And  his  eyes,  too,  had  a  dangerous  look  as  they 
confronted  the  man  before  him  without  a  flinch.  "  If 
it's  all  the  same  to  you,  sir,  I'd  like  an  explanation  my- 
self," he  said,  his  voice  as  low  and  tense  as  his  mood 
would  permit.    "  On  what  ground  do  you  challenge 


i6o    7he  SINGER  of  The  KOOTEN/tY 

the  propriety  of  my  walking  through  the  park  with 
the  lady  you've  been  good  enough  to  refer  to  ?  If 
you'll  tell  me  that  without  delay,  sir,  I'll— I'll  be— be 
obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Holmes,"  struggling  with  his 
rising  passion. 

Holmes  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  That  won't  take  long," 
he  splurged,  his  voice  thick  with  anger—"  on  this 
ground,  curse  you,  that  young  bloods,  especially  un- 
known bloods,  don't  stroll  through  the  woods  with 
pretty  girls  unless  they— unless— yes,  that's  the 
ground,  danm  you  ! " 

Like  a  panther  Murray  was  upon  him,  clutching 
wildly  for  his  throat.     But  the   Englishman,  well 
trained   for   interviews  such  as  this,  gave  him  ready 
battle.     Round  and  round  the  room  they  tossed,  like 
some  swirling  tide,  a  muttered  oath  or  stifled  gasp 
being  the  only  thing  else  to  break  the  silence.     Once, 
as  they  passed  the  table,  Holmes  clawed  wildly  out  at 
it,  his  eye  on  the  bottle  that  stood  there.     He  missed 
it — but  his  fingers  closed  on  the  corkscrew  that  lay 
open    on    the    table;   with  which,   maddened  and 
reckless,  he  gave  Murray  a  ripping  blow,  the  sharp 
point  gouging  his  cheek  as  the  blood  spurted  out 
over  them  both.     It  may  have  been  this— or  some- 
thing else— that  did  it,  but  from  that  moment  the 
Canadian's  strength  se  imed  more  that  of  a  wild  animal 
than  of  a  struggling  man— and  at  last,  his  fingers 


A   FRIENDLY  FEUD 


l6i 


closing  like  a  vise,  he  had  his  enemy  by  the  throat 
and  on  his  back  on  the  floor. 

"Hah!"  he  gasped.  "Hah!  Yes!"  like  one 
drinking  deep.  Then,  swiftly  controUing  himself: 
"  Take  it  back ! "  he  whispered,  his  voice  half  a  whis- 
per and  half  a  cry,  "  take  it  back— before  I  kill  you," 
leering  frightfully  down  into  the  face  beneath  him. 

The  Englishman  saw  death  there  as  he  looked  up. 
And  it  took  but  a  moment  for  the  parched  lips  to 
falter  the  word  the  maddened  man  above  waited 
breathlessly  to  hear.  •<  You  didn't  understand  me, 
McLean,"  the  prostrate  one  panted  as  the  fingers  on 
his  throat  relaxed ;  "  'twas  only  a  bit  of  a  joke  at  tlie 
most— God,  you're  a  tiger,"  as  he  lumbered  heavily 
to  his  feet,  his  antagonist  turning  towards  a  chair,  the 
exhaustion  of  a  great  reaction  upon  him  now, 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  respect  you,  McLean," 
the  Englishman  suddenly  broke  out  after  one  or  two 
curious  glances  at  the  now  seated  form ;  "  'pon  my 
soul,  I'd  sooner  shake  hands  with  you  than  not— 
an  Englishman  knows  when  he  meets  his  match,"  as 
he  came  over  with  extended  palm, 

Murray  took  it  dreamily ;  but  everything  seemed 
so  far  away. 

"  Good  God !  he's  fainting,"  Holmes  suddenly  ex- 
claimed ;  "  here,  sit  up— there,  lean  on  me,"  as  he 
held    him   with   his   arm    about  his   neck,   resting 


^FMTl^ 


i6a    Thg  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

the  Canadian's  head  on  his  shoulder;  "  liere—take 
this,"  as  he  poured  out  a  copious  draught  of  the 
V^  hquor  and  held  it  to  the  bloodless  lips.    "  There— 
now  you'll  be  better  in  a  minute." 

As  indeed  he  was.     But  now  Holmes*  whole  care 
seemed  to  be  with  the  wounded  cheek  of  his  erst- 
while antagonist.    -  Beastly  rotten  trick,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself;  -don't  know  what  the  deuce  could 
have  come  over  me ;  here.  I'v    got  the  very  thing  " 
w.th  which  he  turned  quickly  to  a  little  cabinet  in 
the  loom  and  in  a  minute  or  two  was  busy  with 
cotton   batting  and  a  healing  lotion.    The  wound 
was  a  trifling  one  after  ail,  though  it  had  cost  Murray 
considerable  loss  of  blood;  and  in  a  very  little  while 
the  two  men  were  sitting  together  talking,  as  if  no 
such  wild  interruption  had  ever  come.     Very  won- 
derful this,  the  charm  and  tenderness  with  which  an 
Englishman,  even   the   roughest,  can  arm   himself 
when  occasion  arises  to  call  it  forth. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  it  happened.  It  may 
have  been  because  Murray  had.  in  his  collapse  and 
weakness,  tasted  the  seductive  d:  lught;  or  it  may 
have  been  due  to  the  varied  tension  of  the  day  and 
the  exhaustion  of  the  hour;  or  it  may  have  been 
because  Holmes,  evidently  repentant  of  his  folly 
pressed  for  some  pledge  of  good  fellowship  and 
friendship  now  repaired.     Or  it  may  have  been  all 


•msm^mm^s^m^^s^^mm.. 


Shii  ''^'.^^^Mty.i'i^MV 


A    FRIENDL  Y  FEUD 


163 


three.  But,  in  any  case,  when  the  marble  clock  on 
Holmes'  mantelpiece  chimed  nine,  the  sound  fell  on 
the  ears  of  two  men  neither  one  of  whom  was  alto- 
gether himself.  Holmes,  especially,  was  showing 
the  results  of  his  excess ;  and,  if  Murray's  vision  had 
been  clearer,  he  could  hardly  hav?  failed  to  see  how 
the  darker  passions  of  the  man  were  again  showing 
in  his  face. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  Englishman  started  from  his 
seat  "  I  say,  old  fellow,"  he  began,  his  hand  on  the 
other's  shoulder,  "come  on  with  me— I'm  going 
out." 

"  Where  to  ?  "  Murray  naturally  enquired. 

"  Oh,  just  to  see  some  fellows,"  Holmes  returned ; 
"  some  jolly  good  fellows— I  know  you'll  like  every 
one  of  them — you'll  have  the  time  of  your  life.  It 
isn't  late  yet— and  anyhow,  these  particular  fellows 
never  go  to  bed  till  early  morning.  They  all  live 
together  by  themselves,  you  know." 

"  Friends  of  yours?"  pursued  Murray. 

"Rather — old  chums  of  mine;  many's  the  good 
time  I've  had  there.  Come  on— herr^'s  your  coat," 
as  he  began  to  put  on  his  own. 

"How  about  this  face?"  Murray  enquired  rue- 
fully, indicating  the  wounded  part. 

"  Oh,  that's  neither  here  nor  there — nobody  ever 
notices  the  like  of  that  in  the  Kootenay.     Besides, 


m 

m 


u 


': 


r!i 


164  The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
it's  kind  of  honourable  to  have  some  scar  about  you 
—like  the  students  at  Heidelberg.  Though  I  can't 
help  wondering  how  I  ever  came  to  play  the  cad 
hke  that.  I'll  really  never  forgive  myself,  old  chap," 
and  the  Englishman's  penitence  was  evidently  sin- 
cere as  he  again  inspected  his  handiwork,  again 
applying  the  lotion  with  tender  impact. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  Holmes,"  Murray  returned, 
really  touched  by  the  fellow's  sohcitude;  "all's  fair 
in  love  or  war-and  there  was  a  little  of  both,  as  you 
remember." 

"  Ha !  Ha ! "  laughed  Holmes,  "  that's  true  enough 
—and  jolly  well  put,  if  you  ask  me.  You're  a  sport 
after  my  own  heart.  Mac,  'pon  my  soul  you  are. 
Come  on— wait  a  minute  till  I  put  out  the  light." 

The  moon  was  bright  overhead  as  the  two  men 
went  out  into  the  night.     There  were  still  a  goodly 
number  of  stragglers   on  the  street,  for   the  hour 
was   not  yet  late.     But  it  was   only  a  matter   of 
five  minutes  or  so  till  they  had  passed  into  the  out- 
skirts, following  a  muddy  street  that  led  up  towards 
the  base  of  Old  Observation.     And  now  these  moun- 
tains, so   changing  with   the   changing   mood,   re- 
sumed   their    nobility    and    splendour    as    Murray 
looked  up  at  them  once  more  amid  the  holy  stillness 
of  the  night.     The  very  breath  of  peace,  friendly  and 
benign,  seemed  to  be  about  them  as  they  lifted  their 


irrriiir      ir  '«».V'.€r' 


A    FRIENDLY  FEUD 


165 


peaks  to  the  starry  sky.  For  he  was  happier  now — 
happy  in  the  fellowship  of  a  brother  man,  in  whr^n, 
he  firmly  believed,  he  was  to  find  a  friend,  all  the 
more  a  friend  because  of  the  conflict  that  was  past. 
And  perhaps  this  very  association  was  to  be  of  the 
greatest  use  to  him ;  for  Holmes  knew  so  many  men, 
men  of  influence,  too — and  who  could  tell  but  one 
of  those  kindred  spirits  he  was  now  to  meet  wtvald 
prove  a  benefactor  in  his  hour  of  need?  Besides, 
the  gracious  influence  of  the  night  was  about  him ; 
and  the  healing  power  of  the  mountain  air;  the 
subduing  presence  of  the  silvery  sublimities  above 
him,  too — all  united  to  create  the  nameless  thrill 
that  nobler  natures  feel  amid  surroundings  so 
majestic. 

"  I  know  who's  sitting  beside  that  light,"  Holmes 
broke  in  with  a  chuckle,  pointing  to  a  glowing 
window  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  window  in  the 
Ludlow  mansion.  "  That's  where  my  own  particular 
treasure  is.  And  I  know  it  isn't  the  old  folks — 
they're  out  to  some  kind  of  all  night  splurge,  as  I 
told  you.  And  Mrs.  Ludlo»v'll  be  having  the  dickens 
of  a  time  for  fear  the  old  man  may  tie  his  napk  . 
under  his  chin,  or  make  a  noise  with  his  soup,  or  slit 
his  mouth  open  with  his  knife.  Oh,  yes,  I  know 
it's  Hilda  that's  there  all  right — take  you  round  some 
day,"  he  concluded  amiably,  Murray  inwardly  mar- 


^M 


;.!■ 


'■:  i' 


166    The  S/^rGER  of  The  KOOJENAY 

veiling  at  the  man't  cheap  levity,  the  circumstance, 
all  considered. 

••  Here's  the  house,"  Holmes  announced  abruptly 
about  ten  m.nutcs  later  as  he  stopped  before  a  flimsy 
looking  dwelling,  high  and  narrow,  with  a  little  gable 
wmdow.  It  was  one  of  four  or  five  similar  structures 
m  a  row.  Murray  noticed  that  the  blinds  of  all  were 
carefully  drawn-^nd  a  deep  red  glow  .treamed 
sullenly  through  the  windows. 

The    Canadian    stood    still  a  moment.     "Good 
God  I "  he  suddenly  broke  out.  "  what's  that  ?-_I 
could  have  sworn  I  heard  a  cry.  a  woman's  voice 
right  overhead-I  thought  you  said  they  were  all 
men  here  ?  " 

"  You're  batty,"  Holmes  answered  gruffly-.*  too 
much  refreshment,  I  guess-that  was  a  mountain- 
cat.  back  in  the  woods,  you  heard.  They're  awfully 
alike.  Come  on-you'il  hke  the  fellows  when  you 
know  them,"  with  which,  opening  the  door  without 
rapping  and  giving  his  companion  a  slight  push  in 
front,  he  ushered  Murray  into  the  dimly  lighted  hall, 
slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

Murray   looked   about  him.     Something  in   the 
atmosphere,  so  self-revealing  is  the  blight  of  death 
made  his  heart  beat  with  a  mysterious  quickness.' 
every  sense  on  the  alert.    A  muffled  sound  came 
from  above,  mingling  with  the  dink  of  glassware  and 


^sSM. 


A    FRIENDL  Y   FEUD 


167 


the  stray  notes  of  a  pjano,  as  if  some  one  were  toying 
with  the  keys. 

"  The  fellows  are  up-stairs,"  Holmes  said,  his  face 
averted,  at  the  same  time  shuffling  off  his  overcoat 
and  letting  it  lie  where  it  fel'  "  Come  on — I  know 
the  way." 

Moved  by  some  indefinabic  impulse,  Murray  also 
slipped  oflT  liis  outer  cfiat  and  threw  it,  with  his  hat, 
upon  the  floor.  Then,  r!l  hesitation  gone,  he  fol- 
lowed the  man  before  him. 


^I^^ 


f.  s. 


I'K 


xir 

THE  KNIGHT  IN   THE  ATTIC 

HOLMES  never  paused  when  he  reached  the 
door.     Already  Murray's  heart  was  going 
like  a  trip-hammer,  his  brain  afire  as  never 
before   in  all  his  life.     The  Englishn.an  flung  the 
door  open,  letting  forth  sounds  of  revelry,  and  strode 
mto  the  room,  his  companion  close  behind  him. 

Cries  of  welcome  greeted  him;  and  as  he  stood  he 
turned  smiling  to  Murray.  -  Here  are  the  friends  I 
told  you  about,  McLean,"  he  began-"  girls,  this  is  a 
little  protege  of  mine,  and  I  want  you  to  be  good  to 
him.  He  sings  like  an  angel— and  aiter  we've  had  a 
little  refreshment  he's  going  to  favour  us.  Now, 
Sally,"  he  went  on  archly,  "  don't  worry  about  that 
scratch  on  his  pretty  face_I  see  it  pains  you  already 

—but  it  was  only  an  accident,  and " 

"  We  will  soon  make  it  better,"  gaily  cried  the  one 
addressed  ^s  Sally.  "  the  same  treatment  our  mothers 
used  to  give,  for  cuts  and  bruises,  you  know-nothing 
better  ever  been  discovered,"  as  she  moved  over,  a 
gauzy  figure,  towards  where  Murray  stood. 

As  stand  he  did.     And  his  eyes,  like  things  aflame, 
took  in  all  the  uodeful  scene  before  him  as  they 

1 68 


The   KNIGHT  in    The   ATTIC     169 

surveyed  the  room  and  its  immates  in  shameful 
dishabille.  And  as  he  looked— and  as  the  unhappy- 
creature  moved  over  towards  him— the  strength  of 
years,  all  misspent  though  they  had  been  but  never 
soiled  like  this,  seemed  to  roll  back  upon  his  heart. 

Who  can  tell — let  scoffers  answer  as  they  may 

why,  in  a  distant  Ontario  village  and  in  a  humble 
home  and  at  that  very  hour,  a  fragile  figure,  moved 
by  some  nameless  yearning  of  love  and  fear,  rose 
from  her  bed  and  knelt  beside  it  to  pray  for  a  father- 
less boy  far  distant  on  the  world's  wide  ocean,  at  that 
very  hour  battling  for  his  soul  ?  Who  can  tell  ?— 
let  scoffers  answer  as  they  may. 

Perhaps  some  such  holy  vision  rose  before  him  as 
he  stood  that  night  amid  the  surging  tide  of  sin;  of 
a  truth,  the  sweet  outline  of  that  pure  face  flashed 
before  him — and  the  memory  of  a  Mother's  Face  is 
the  Panoply  of  God. 

Surely  those  who  looked  that  night  could  see  the 
traces  of  the  struggle  in  his  soul,  the  fierce,  fiery  con- 
flict of  a  youth  whose  whole  nature,  not  immune  from 
evil,  still  set  towards  righteousness.  The  momentum 
of  the  years,  the  influence  of  early  training,  the  bent  of 
a  native  purity,  all  could  be  seen  as  they  gave  battle  in 
that  fateful  hour.  And  the  victory  was  swift,  decisive. 
The  face,  the  very  eyes,  suddenly  flashed  and  glowed 
with  a  great  revulsion ;  and  upon  both,  strange  as  it 


^  ;i 


^--M 


170    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

may  seem  to  say  it,  there  rested  the  hght  of  spiritual 
power,  such  as  not  the  rehgious,  nor  the  saintly,  nor 
the  pious,  but  only  the  essentially  pure  in  heart  may 
know.  And  mingling  with  it,  as  the  lightning 
mingles  with  the  storm,  there  gleamed  a  terrific 
anger  whose  home  was  in  his  heart. 

He  thrust  the  woman  from  him  with  a  swift  ges- 
ture of  disgust,  at  the  same  time  moving  stealthily 
over  to  where  the  Englishman  stood.  "  Holmes,"  he 
said,  "  I've  gone  something  of  a  pace  myself— and 
I'm  no  Sunday-school  scholar.  But  I  swear  by  the 
God  who  sees  us  both  that  I've  never  sunk  to  this— 
and  you're  a  liar.  Holmes,  a  damn  sneaking  liar,  who 
doesn't  care  for " 

The  rest  was  lost  as  he  lunged  towards  his  erst- 
while friend,  erstwhile  enemy,  beating  out  wildly  in 
front  of  him.  But  in  an  instant  Holmes,  exceeding 
sprightly  now,  had  eluded  the  blow— and  in  another 
moment  the  room  was  in  confusion,  his  airy  friends 
throwing  themselves  between  him  and  his  assailant. 

With  a  muttered  imprecation  of  wrath  and  loathing 
Murray  turned  and  left  the  room,  one  of  the  enraged 
inmates  slamming  the  door  shut  behind  him  as  he  dis- 
appeared. And  fortunate  indeed  it  was  that  she 
chose  that  way  of  voicing  her  contempt. 

For  just  as  Murray  had  turned  to  descend  the 
stair  he  heard  again  what  he  took  to  be  a  muffled 


The   KNIGHT  in    The   ATTIC 


171 


cry,  like  the  voice  of  a  weeping  woman.  He  stood 
still  and  listened.  Then  he  looked  up,  for  he  was 
standing  just  where  he  could  command  '.vith  his  eye 
the  second  floor  above.  A  moment  later  he  knew  he 
was  not  mistaken ;  for  he  felt  the  blood  surge  back 
cold  to  his  heart  as  a  wan  face  appeared  above  him 
in  the  dim  light,  all  tear-stained  and  wrung  with  grief, 
peering  down  at  him  in  wistful  yearning.  Gazing 
still,  he  suddenly  noticed  the  trembling  girl  beckon 
to  him  with  a  quick,  appealing  motion. 

Instantly  he  began  to  retrace  his  steps  on  the  stair, 
then  swiftly  and  noiselessly  hurried  up  another  partial 
flight  to  the  landing  where  she  stood.  A  small, 
dainty  creature,  he  noticed  in  the  shadowy  light,  her 
face  as  innocent  as  a  baby's,  all  the  more  appealing 
because  of  the  look  of  trustful  misery  upon  it.  Her 
hand  went  out  impulsively  to  his  and  he  took  it  in 
his  own. 

"  Oh,  sir."  she  began  low,  not  waiting  for  him  to 
speak,  "  I  don't  know  who  you  are— but  for  God's 
sake,  help  me." 

"  Help  you .' "  he  echoed  peering  down  into  her 
face. 

"  Yes,  for  God's  sake,  help  me ! "  she  repeated 
piteously.  "  Oh,  sir,  take  me  away— oh,  take  me 
away.  I  was  brought  here  yesterday— two  women 
told  me  I  would  get  work  here~I  was  only  new  out 


173    The  SINGER  of  'The  K007HNAY 

from  Edinburgh,  and  my  parents  are  dead,  and  I  was 
going  to  look  for  work  of  some  kind.     And  I  never 
knew— I  never  knew,"  now  weeping  bitterly  again, 
••  till  yesterday  afternoon.     Then  that  man  came— the 
same  man  that  brought  you  here  just  now ;  I  could  tell 
him  from  the  window  in  the  moonlight.    Besides,  I 
heard  his  voice;  I  heard  him  lie  to  you  about— about 
who  live  here.     Well,  he  tortured  me,  he  tortured 
me !     But  I  fought  him,"  she  broke  out  savagely  like 
a  wild  thing  at  bay—"  I  fought  him,  bit  him,  fought 
till  I  was  nearly  dead.     But  they  wouldn't  let  me  go 
—and  they  said  they'd  keep  me  here  till  I  gave  in," 
with  which  she  fell  again  to  the  most  violent  trembling 
and  weeping,  the  poor  hunted  body  creeping  into 
Murray's  side  as  if  for  warmth  and  shelter. 
He  stood,  panting  as  excitedly  as  she. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  moved  over  to  the  window. 
"  There's  a  shed  there,"  he  said  aloud—"  and  it  can't 
be  very  far  down  to  the  yard  from  it." 

The  girl  was    beside   him.     •«  Yes,"   she   echoed 
faintly,  "  that's  a  shed—but  its  so  high." 

"  I'veseen  worse  jumps,"  Murray  murmured  to  him- 
self;  "however "with    which    he    turned   and 

looked  about  the  room.  His  eye  brightened  as  it 
fell  on  a  piece  of  rope  that  ran  across  below  the  ceil- 
ing, evidently  used  for  hanging  clothes.  Like  a 
flash  he  laid  hold  of  it,  tore  it  from  its  place,  and  be- 


The    KNIGHT  in    The   ATTIC     i 


13 


gan  hurriedly  to  attach  it  to  the  knob  of  the  door 
near  the  window. 

But  just  then,  like  the  sound  of  doom,  he  heard  the 
creaking  of  the  door  down-stairs— and  some  one  came 
out  into  the  hall.  This  some  one  descended  the  stairs 
towards  the  door  opening  on  the  street.  And  a 
moment  later,  Hke  a  pistol  shot,  the  voice  of  Holmes 
rang  out.  "  Good  Lord !  I  told  you  so — he's  in  the 
house— here's  his  coat  and  hat !  " 

Murray  sprang  towards  the  girl,  all  occasion  for 
silence  vanished  now.     <«  Come,"  he  said  excitedly ; 
"  come,  we'll  have  to  jump ! "     The  girl  gave  a  loud 
cry  and  fell  back  half-unconscious  in  his  arms.     He 
gathered  her  up,  glancing  towards  the  window  ;  then, 
seized  of  a  sudden  impulse,  he  shook  her  sternly  and 
shouted  in  her  ear.     This  had  the  effect  he  desired  ; 
she  half  stood  before  him  now,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
But  again  he  hesitated,  turning  towards  the  door. 
his  face  livid.     The  girl  could  see  his  '^yes  fiash  in 
the  semi -darkness,  and  the  sweat  was  on  his  brow. 
He   leaped  to  the  door,  taking  his  place  just  be- 
hind it— and  the  veins  stood  out  like  whipcords  on 
his  forehead.     The  first  would  be  Holmes— and  he 
knew  it.     A  moment  later  this  very  Holmes  daslied 
in ;  but,  before  he  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
room,  one  smashing  blow  from  Murray's  fist  laid  him 
prostrate  on  the  floor.     Then  he  sprang  towards  the 


-n 


I 


ii  it 


174  TA/f  S/SfGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
trembling  girl,  hurling  this  way  and  that  the  one  or 
two  who  had  stumbled  in  over  Holmes'  half-con- 
scious body,  seized  her  in  arms  of  iron,  threw  himself 
over  the  sill,  hung  for  one  throbbing  moment  with 
one  sinewy  arm,  then  dropped,  his  burden  still  held 
tight,  on  to  the  resounding  roof.  A  moment  later 
he  had  leaped  the  lesser  distance  from  the  shed  to  the 
ground,  standing  with  his  quivering  charge  beneath 
the  silvery  moon.         >■ 

"  Thank  heaven  ! "  he  murmured  as  he  straightened 
himself  and  looked  about;  "thank  heaven,  we're 
safe  and  sound.  Now,  come,  let  us  go— but  where 
to,  God  only  knows,"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
fumbled  for  the  gate  and  led  the  girl  out  into  the 
narrow  lane. 

They  unconsciously  turned  their  steps  towards  the 

town,  whose  lights  could  be  seen  twinkling  in  the 

distance.     Glancing  at  the  woman  by  his  side,  he 

sar.  her  shuddering,  for  the  night  was  chill.    >■■  I'm  so 

cold,"  she  murmured,  her  teeth  chattering  now— and 

for  the  first  time  he  noticed  how  scantily  she  was 

clad.     A  flush  of  maddening  anger  flowed  over  his 

face,  warm  enough  in  all  conscience,  as  he  noticed 

what   this  meant— and  after  a   moment's  hesitation 

he  flung  off  his  coat  and  put  it  over  the  shoulders  of 

the  protesting  girl. 

Thus  they  went  on  together,  the  homeless  one  still 


I  % 


The    KNIGHT  in    The   ATTIC     175 

babbling,  with  many  a  broken  sob,  the  story  of  her 
wrong.  He  Hstened,  carelessly  enough,  for  he  was 
now  in  sore  perplexity  as  to  where  he  should  take  this 
ward  so  strangely  thrust  upon  him.  Still  pondering 
and  bewildered,  he  suddenly  noted  that  he  was  once 
more  opposite  tlie  Ludlow  house ;  and  the  light  pre- 
viously remarked  was  still  streaming  from  the  win- 
dow beside  the  door. 

In  an  instant  his  resolve  was  taken,  and  some  secret 
conviction  told  him  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken. 
"  Come  this  way,"  he  directed  briefly  and  turned  in 
at  the  gate.  Then  he  rang  the  bell,  and  stood  wait- 
ing. 

Holmes  had  been  quite  correct  in  his  surmise  as  to 
who  kept  vigil  beside  that  streaming  light. 

And  strange  enough  was  the  spectacle  that  greeted 
Hilda  Ludlow  as  she  opened  the  door  herself  that 
night.  She  started  back  with  a  half  cry  as  she  made 
out  the  odd  form  of  the  girl,  so  grotesquely  garbed, 
and  the  hatless  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  beside  her. 

"  It's  I,"  he  began ;  and  the  voice  that  had  rung 
like  a  thunderbolt  before  was  now  quivering  like  a 
child's.  "  It's  I— Murray  McLean  ;  you  remember 
we  were  looking  at  the  beavers,  and  the  things,  this 
morning." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  bewildered  voice ;  "  yes, 
I  recognize  you — but  where — where's  your  coat  ?  " 


tmmjaMjsmitS^ 


«f 


176    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  She's  got  it  on,"  he  explained  abashedly ;  "  I  for- 
got to  take  it  back— and  she's— she's  in  great  trouble, 
Miss  Ludlow.    And  I  didn't  know  anybody  else— 

nor  what  to  do — nor  who  could  help   her so  I 

brought  her  to  you."  His  eyes  were  down  as  he 
stood  in  the  flood  of  light  flung  through  the  open 
door. 

"  Trouble ! "  she  answered  in  the  same  perplexed 
voice ;  "  what  trouble  ?  " 
"  She'll  tell  you  herself,"  he  said  briefly. 
"  Come   in,"  the  gentle  voice  responded  as  she 
moved  back  from  the  door;  "come  on  in — father 
and  mother  are  both  out— but  come  in,  to  the  fire." 

Murray  stood  back  to  let  the  girl  enter.  "  I  won't 
come  in,"  he  said  as  she  crossed  the  threshold ;  "  I'm 
going  to  the  hotel — please  give  me  my  coat." 

The  girl  divested  herself  of  the  garment;  and 
again,  with  a  flood  of  weeping  that  broke  forth  anew, 
she  tried  to  thank  her  deliverer.  But  he  was  gone, 
the  tall  swinging  form  barely  visible  in  the  shimmer- 
ing light. 

Hilda  Ludlow  drew  the  girl  gently  into  the  cheer- 
ful sitting-room  and  seated  her  beside  the  fire. 
"  Now  tell  me,  my  child,"  she  began,  thouijh  the 
stranger  was  almost  of  an  age  with  herself,  "  what  it 
is  that's  troubling  you.  You're  so  cold,"  she  went  on, 
her  eyes  on  the  shuddering  form—"  and  I'm  sure 


7ht   KNIGHT  hi    The   A7  7IC     177 


i 


you're  hungry.  Wait,  I  won't  be  long,"  and  without 
another  word  she  disappeared,  returning  in  a  few 
minutes  with  a  bountifully  laden  tray. 

The  poor  creature  ate  timidly,  yet  eagerly,  starting 
at  every  sound ;  once  or  twice,  in  the  middle  of  her 
repast,  she  fell  to  weeping  bitterly.  Hilda  soothed 
her  as  best  she  could,  all  the  strength  and  compassion 
of  her  woman-heart  coming  to  the  surface  while  she 
waited  cu  this  poor  wastrel  as  though  she  were  some 
long-lost  friend. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  child,"  she  urged  gently  when  the 
stranger  at  length  rose  from  the  table  and  returned 
to  the  fire ;  "  tell  me  what  it  is  that's  wrong— at 
least,  as  much  as  you  feel  you  can  tell." 

It  was  not  easily  told.  The  full  heart  seemed  to 
choke  as  again  and  again  it  tried  to  pour  forth  its 
bitter  burden.  But  more  freely  at  last ;  by  and  by 
with  burning  words  ;  at  length  with  passionate  tide, 
came  the  pitiful  story  of  how  she  had  bee  i  ap- 
proached, misled,  entrapped,  imprisoned — till,  as  the 
dread  horror  of  it  all  came  over  her  afresh,  she  hid 
her  face  in  the  bosom  of  her  befriender,  now  trem- 
bling like  herself,  and  sobbed  as  though  the  fountain 
of  tears  would  flow  forever. 

To  have  perfect  pity  there  must  needs  be  perfect 
purity.  It  iik  those  most  nearly  sinless  who  know 
not  how  to  be  severe.     Wherefore   Hilda  Ludlow's 


iVi' 


W^0-r 


178    The  S/NGHR  of  The  K007ENAY 

compassion  flowed  like  a  river;  strong,  unbUined, 
pure  in  heart  herself,  iier  soul  went  out  in  infinite 
tenderness  to  this  poor  waif  who  had  now  sunk  to 
the  floor,  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  the  compassionate 
one  beside  her.     And  very  rciitly,  with  words  of 
cheer   and   hope  that  were  eloquent  in  their  very 
brokcnness,  she  sought  to  comfort  the  desolate  spirit 
whom  the  waves  of  fate  had  borne  to  her  iloor.     She 
spoke  to  her  of  a  life  as  yet  niviolate  by  her  own  sur- 
render ;  she  promised  protection,  assistance,  sympa- 
thy.    And  yet,  through   it  all— for  her  lips  were 
meant  for  an  even  nobler  strain,  though  she  knew  it 
not— Hilda  felt  that  some  mighty  and  dominant  word 
was  wanting ;  some  Master-note ;  some  Healing  from 
afar;  some  Reinfo .cement  not  of  time;  some  Balm 
with  the  breath  of  the  Infinite  about  it— she  could 
not  yet  comfort  with  that  consolation  wherewith  she 
herself  was  comforted  of  Gou. 

"  And  so  you  say  your  parents  went  to  Scotland 
from  New  Brunswick  ?  "  she  said  cheerily,  reverting 
to  the  girl's  story.  "  Why,  my  own  mother  came 
from  there— my  father,  too,  for  that  matter.  That 
gives  us  something  to  start  on,  doesn't  it,  now  ?  " 
smiling  as  she  spoke.  «•  So  you'll  stay  here— right 
here,"  she  said  at  last, "  to-night—and  as  long  as  may 
be  necessary.  You'll  be  safe  here,  my  (^ear— but  now 
I  think  you'd  better  go  to  bed,  and  get  the  r    1  you 


The   KN/GHT  in    The   ATTIC     179 


# 


need  so  badly.  I'm  waiting  till  my  father  and  mother 
come  back — they're  later  than  I  expected.  Hark !  " 
as  she  heard  a  footfall  on  the  porch  without ;  '*  surely 
1  heir  thcni  now — but  what  can  they  be  ringing  for  ? 
— Oh,  I  forgot  the  door  was  locked." 

Strange,  is  it  not,  how  the  very  conscience  of  a 
bad  man  may  be  made  the  minister  of  his  punish- 
ment ?  For  a  singular  apprehension  had  possessed 
the  unhappy  Holmes  irom  the  moment  when,  rally- 
ing from  Murray's  blow,  he  realized  that  his  prey  md 
his  enemy  had  alike  escaped  him.  Some  vague  mis- 
giving that  it  was  yet  to  result  disastrously  for  him, 
coupled  with  the  gnawing  of  a  guilty  mind,  had  im- 
pelled him  to  the  very  step  he  had  taken,  the  step 
tha'  was  to  euect  the  wreckage  of  his  cherished  plans. 
Foi  he  had  felt  a  strange  and  irresistible  impulse  to 
see  Hilda  Ludlow.  Still  more  or  less  beclouded  from 
his  debauch,  a  secret  uneasiness,  coupled  with  the 
niiudlin  impulse  that  semi-intoxication  so  often  gives, 
had  prompted  this  untimely  call. 

Hilda  rose  and  hurried  to  answer  the  summons. 
But  no  parents'  faces  greeted  her  at  the  door.  When 
she  opened  it  Holmes  stood  without — and  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  fell  from  her  as  she  recognized 
him. 

"  I  was  only  passing,"  he  began  with  accustomed 
calm — "  was   coming  in   from   i..e  country ;  and  I 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


IIIIIM 

1^  i^ 

Ilia 

ir  1^ 

If  1^ 

12.0 

1.8 


A     APPLIED  IISAHGE 


1653   East    Moin   Stree! 

Rochester.    New   York         14609       USA 

(716)    482  -  OJOO  -  Phone 

(716)    288-  5989  -Fox 


iSo    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

knew  the  folks  were  going  out  for  the  evening,  so  I 
just  thought  I'd  drop  in  and  sit  with  you  till  they 
came  back— if  they're  not  home  already,"  as  he 
moved  onward  into  the  hall. 

Hilda  was  trying  to  frame  some  excuse,  and  he 
could  not  but  notice  the  embarrassment  that  pos- 
sessed her.  Which  only  confirmed  him  in  his  orig- 
inal purpose,  and.  with  a  familiarity  bred  of  many 
previous  visits,  he  turned  nonchalantly  towards  the 
room  from  which  the  gleam  of  the  cozy  fire  could  be 
seen.  Before  Hilda  could  intervene  he  had  stepped 
across  the  threshold. 

And  then,  to  her  amazement  and  alarm,  there 
broke  from  the  cowering  fugitive  by  the  fire  such  a 
scream  as  Hilda  Ludlow  had  never  heard  in  her  life 
before.  It  was  alive  with  terror,  repeated  once  and 
again,  then  broken  off  in  half-hysterical  moans  and 
gasps  as  the  poor  girl,  now  lithe  and  active  as  some 
hunted  thing,  fairly  bounded  past  the  object  of  her 
terror  and  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  wonder- 
ing woman  in  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  sobbed,  shrieked,  in  her  anguish, 
"  don't  let  him  get  me.  It  was  he  that  tried— that 
tried,  to  hurt  me.  Oh,  save  me.  save  me  no;v— he  s 
come  to  take  me  back,'  she  sobbed,  clinging  closer 
and  closer  to  her  deliverer. 

Hilda  demanded,  almost  sternly,  that  she  be  calm 


III 


The   KNIGHT   in    The   ATTIC     i8i 

— and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  her  eyes  flew  towards 
Holmes.  She  could  not  but  remark  that  his  face 
had  turned  the  colour  of  death.  A  cynical  smile 
was  forced  to  his  lips,  hut  she  could  see  him  tremble 
where  he  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  turned  to  him  in  terrible  appeal ; 
so  gentle,  so  playful  in  their  wont,  but  now  fearful 
in  their  questioning. 

He  rose,  muttered  something  about  the  girl  being 
crazy,  about  calling  a  policeman,  about  something 
else.  But  the  awful  questioning  of  a  pure  soul  pur- 
sued him;  wherewith,  breaking  now  into  stormy 
protest,  he  branded  it  all  a  parcel  of  lies,  and  would 
know  whether  or  not  the  charge  of  a  nameless 
immigrant  was  to  be  believed  before  the  word  of  an 
English  gentleman. 

But  the  nameless  one  seemed  slowly  to  revive. 
Outraged  womanhood  will  not  permanently  suffer  in 
silence  nor  yet  in  tears.  Emboldened  by  the  protec- 
tion she  had  found,  aglow  with  the  passion  of  her 
wrong,  kindling  more  and  more  against  this  monster 
in  human  form,  the  girl's  impeachment  came  at  last 
bold  and  ringing. 

"  I  can  prove  it,"  she  cried  in  growing  anger,  still 
clinging  desperately  to  her  protector ;  "  look — look 
there — at  the  side  of  his  face — and  around  the  fore- 
head !     That's  where  that  gentleman   struck  him — 


m^^^^w^^^f^^'^^asmrim-.^^im^  s^^sss-i^mFiw^^ 


182    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

and  made  him  fall— that  man  that  brought  me  to 
you,"    trembling  closer    again;  "that's    where    he 
struck  him  before  he  seized  me  and  leaped  through 
the  window— and  the   dust,  see  the  dust,"  as  she 
pointed   to  his   clothes.     •<  And,  yes  !     Oh,  yes  !  "  a 
sudden  gleam  of  triumph  lighting  up  the  ghostly  face, 
"  I've  got  this— he  dropped  it  when  he  was  trying  to 
overcome   me— and  I   slipped  it  into  my  dress,  to 
give  to  the  police  if  I  ever  got  out  of  that  awful 
place,"  with  which,  panting  like  a  wounded  thing, 
she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  crumpled  handkerchief, 
holding  it  before  Hilda's  gaze.    •'  See ! "  she  cried ; 
"see!   there's   the  name   written   in   little  letters- 
there,   on   the   margin— is    it   his?"   and  her  eyes 
gleamed   in   the  lamplight  as  she  stood  on  tiptoe 
and  held  up  the  fatal  evidence. 

Hilda  Ludlow  glanced  at  it— then  looked  a  mo- 
ment longer— then  dropped  the  thing  upon  the  floor. 
In  an  instant  she  turned  to  Holmes— but  as 
quickly  averted  her  gaze,  as  though  she  had  seen  a 
serpent.  Her  arm  was  around  the  girl— and  she 
moved  slowly  towards  the  door.  She  opened  it  and 
stood  aside. 

"  Go !  "  she  said,  her  eyes  still  withdrawn  ;  "  go !  " 
—and  the  voice  had  the  refrain  of  the  unearthly  in 
it,  a  scorching  note  like  that  of  consuming  fire—"  go 
—now— and  forever.     Go  ! "  the  voice  almost  shrill 


i.s. 


The   KNIGHT  in    The   ATTIC     183 

in  its  unnatural  intensity,  ablaze  from  a  blazing 
soul. 

Holmes  cowered  where  he  stood.  By  tliis  time 
he  was  fumbling  in  the  crowded  rack  for  the  stick 
he  had  placed  there  as  he  entered.  "  I  wonder,"  he 
mumbled,  his  lips  evidently  dry ;  "  I  wonder  what 
about  the  saint  that  brought  you  your  protege  here 
— I  wonder  how  he  came  to  be  there." 

But  now  the  nameless  girl,  a  moment  before  so 
cowed  and  stricken,  seemed  like  a  Uoness  in  her 
wrath.  "  You  know !  "  she  cried,  her  voice  ringing 
through  the  hall ;  "  you  know — you  know  you  lied 
to  him — I  heard  you  through  the  window.  You 
told  him  you  were  bringing  him  to  call  on  a  lot  of 
men.  I  heard  you — what  he  said,  and  what  you 
said — I  heard  you  lie,  through  the  window  when  you 
were  on  the  street.  Oh,  please  make  him  go,"  she 
turned  and  pleaded  wistfully  with  the  woman  beside 
her;  "  please,  please  make  him— I  hate  him  so." 

But  Hilda  Ludlow  uttered  never  a  word  ;  nor  ever 
glanced  at  t^"  wretch  who  was  now  skulking  towards 
the  door,  ^..e  stood  instead  in  a  sort  of  dreadful 
silence — and  the  power  of  a  burning  soul,  of  an  all- 
conquering  will,  seemed  to  fill  the  place. 

He  went  out  into  the  night  without  a  word.  Then 
she  closed  the  door,  softly,  but  as  though  it  were  the 
door  of  doom — locked  it — turned  back  into  the  light. 


184    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 

A  few  minutes  later  a  pallid  face,  singularly  pure 
and  innocent,  was  resting  on  the  whitest  and  softest 
of  pillows  ;  and  a  broken  heart  was  healing. 

••  Tell  me,"  she  moaned  to  the  woman  who  was 
bidding  her  compose  herself  to  sleep,  "  please  tell 
me  who  it  was  that  saved  me.  Oh,  he  was  so 
strong!  he  was  only  in  that  house,  that  dreadful 
house,  perhaps  two  minutes  or  three,  when  I  heard 
him  call  that  other  man  a  liar— and  he  tried  to  strike 
him  then— and  then  I  knew  that  he'd  save  me.  He 
was  so  strong,  so  strong  and  brave— what  is  his 
name  ?  " 

Hilda  Ludlow  leaned  low  over  the  pillow.  "  You 
must  go  to  sleep  now,  dear."  she  said.  "  And  his 
name?- Oh,  it's  McLean,  I  think— yes.  hit  name  is 
Murray  McLean." 

The  moon  had  sunk,  having  witnessed  much 
before  it  gave  up  the  world  to  darkness. 

But  two  men  were  still  abroad  amid  tl  t  gloom. 
The  one,  Murray  McLean,  was  still  wandering  aim- 
lessly about,  careless  of  his  still  uncovered  head, 
careless  of  slumber,  vainly  striving  to  quiet  a  stormy 
brain.  And  the  other  man.  muttering  in  his  madness, 
was  devising  means  of  vengeance ! 

Suddenly,  and  ^vith  a  smothered  oath,  he  recog- 
nized the  form  of  his  enemy,  drooped  and  burdened. 


ri 


-<^ 


i^fe 


i--j.im'mmv*''^ms^wmsi^^^^Mi^ 


The   KNIGHT   in    The    ATTIC     185 

coming  towards  him  along  the  silent  street.  That 
form  was  bowed  as  if  lost  in  thought,  oblivious  to  all 
that  surrounded  or  awaited  him.  Wherefore,  with  a 
quick  and  devilish  resolve,  the  desperate  Englishman 
shpped  within  the  shadow  of  a  narrow  alley,  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  little  house. 

The  bowed  and  preoccupied  man  came  on, 
ignorant  and  indifferent.  And  a  moment  later,  the 
alley  almost  past,  a  burly  stick  swung  in  the  darkness, 
a  heavy  thud  bespoke  the  unerring  aim,  and  a  stal- 
wart form,  slowly  sinking  to  the  sidewalk,  filled  the 
soul  of  Holmes  with  savage  joy. 

He  left  his  victim  where  he  lay  and  stealthily 
stalked  off  in  the  darkness.  When  morning  dawned 
he  was  already  well  on  his  fugitive  way — and  the 
Kootenay  knew  him  no  more  forever. 


m 


-ii] 


XIII 
THE    TROPHY  A    TEAMSTER    H^ON 

WHEN  Murray  opened  his  eyes  the  next 
morning,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
close  ^them  again.  A  dull  pain  at  the 
top  of  his  head  was  about  all  he  was  conscious  of. 
But  as  he  lay  quietly  in  this  unknown  bed,  returning 
consciousness  slowly  brought  back  the  scenes  and 
memories  of  the  day  before,  ending  with  the  solitary 
and  reflective  walk  in  the  cool  night  air  long  after  the 
moon  had  sunk  from  sight.  One  by  one  the  expe- 
riences of  the  day  floated  before  him,  the  most  event- 
ful day  of  all  his  hfe. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  for  now  he  heard 
some  one  moving  about  his  bed.  And  as  he  did  so 
he  looked  into  a  very  kindly  face  and  a  pair  of  very 
honest  eyes,  wistful  with  solicitous  enquiry.  Murray 
moved  up  on  to  his  elbow  in  the  bed. 

"  You  bean't  strong  enough  to  do  that,  be  you? " 
a  very  uncultured  but  very  genuine  voice  enquired 
as  the  form  of  an  unknown  man  leaned  over  him. 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  Murray  replied,  gazing  inquis- 
itively— ••  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he 

i86 


7he  TROPHY  a   JEAMSTER   W0N\%1 

declared,  though  his  almost  bloodless  face  told  a 
different  story.  "  But  tell  me,  what  am  I  here  for  ? 
— and  where  am  I  anyhow  ? — and  how  did  I  get 
here?" 

"  It's  my  own  'ouse  you  be  in,"  the  man  replied, 
smiling  broadly ;  "  an'  you're  'ere  because  you're  'ere. 
I  carried  you  'ere.  I  'eard  some  one  a-groanin'  an' 
a-groanin' — like  a  baby — on  the  sidewalk  underneath 
my  windy — an'  I  came  down — an'  you  was  'elpless  as  a 
hinfant — an'  the  blood  was  a-runnin'  from  the  back  o' 
your  'ead  like  it  was  a  pump.  An'  I  carried  you  in 
an'  put  you  to  bed — pretty  goodish  lump  to  carry, 
too,  sir,"  smiling  good-naturedly  down  on  his  charge 
— "  an'  that's  'o\v  you  come  to  be  'ere,"  as  the  kindly 
host  moved  over  to  pull  down  a  shade  against  the 
morning  sun 

"  My  hea  :  -.  i  Murray,  putting  up  his  hand, 
only  to  let  it .  .th  a  groan  of  pain.  Then  his  face 
grew  suddenly  white  as  the  wall  beside  him,  his  eyes 
closed,  and  he  fell  back  heavily  on  the  pillow. 

"  Lor'  bless  my  soul,  it's  a  faintin'  he  is ! "  ex- 
claimed the  good  Samaritan  as  he  rushed  hurriedly 
from  the  room.  "  'Ere,  my  lad,  'ere,  take  a  mouth- 
ful o'  this,"  as  he  returned  a  moment  later  with  a  lit- 
tle flask  ;  "  'ere,  this'll  'elp  you,  my  boy — open  your 
lips,  there." 

But   partial  consciousness  had  returned.     "  No," 


>f 


!'; 


188    The  SfNGBR  of  The  KOOTEXAY 

said  the  sick  m.iii— '<  no,  not  any,  thanks  ;  I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute— I'm  all  right  now.  No,  not  any, 
thank  you— I — I  don't  believe  that  does  me  any 
good.  I've  tried  it  before— with  poor  results,"  and 
even  in  his  weakness  the  protesting  patient  indulged 
a  rather  bitter  smile.  "  Hut  tell  me,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  my  head  ?— do  you  suppose  I  struck  some- 
thing?" 

"  More  like  somethin'  struck  vou,  sir,"  the  other 
returned.  "  But  there— vhat's  the  use  o'  worryin'  ? 
—you're  'ere,  there  bean't  any  doubt  o'  that.  An' 
what  I  want  you  to  do  now,  is  rest,  just  rest,  sir,  till 
you  get  strong  and  well  again — you're  just  as  wel- 
come as  if  you  was  in  your  own  'ome,  sir.  An'  I've 
got  to  go  to  work— I'm  a  teamster,  an'  as  'appy  as 
ever  was— an'  I  live  'ere  all  alone.  P>ut  I'll  be  back 
at  dinner  time,  an'  get  summat  'ot  for  the  both  of  us. 
An'  all  you've  got  to  do  is  just  rest,  quiet  an'  easy 
like— till  }'ou  come  around  a  bit,"  with  which  he  dis- 
appeared,  returning  a  little  later  with  a  large  bread- 
board, serving  as  a  tray,  on  which  he  had  prepared  a 
rude  but  not  unpalatable  breakfast  of  eggs  and  toast 
and  tea. 

Murray  drank  the  tea,  but  could  go  no  further. 
"  I  think  I'll  sleep,  as  you  suggest,"  he  said ;  "  and 
please  don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your  work.  But 
first  let  me  tell  you  how  sincerely  I  thank  you  for 


■    V  i  


^^jkMsr:jm.^:^i  K^":-:^ 


I    I. 


7he  TROPHY  a  TE/tMSTER  It^ON  iHq 

your  kindness  to  an  unlucky  stranger — I'm  sure  I'll 
never  forget  such  goodness.  And  may  I  ask  your 
name?"  as  his  benefactor  stood  over  i.im  .vith  the  tray. 

"  Me  ?  I'm  'Awkins— plain  'Enry  'Avvkins— an' 
I'm  a  Hinglishman,  an'  a  teamster,  an'  a  Christian— 
an'  a  elder,  if  you  like— an"  it  was  Billy  Bray  that 
brought  me  into  the  Kingdom,  just  at  sunset  the 
seventeenth  of  August— an'  that's  about  all  I  could 
tell  if  I  talked  till  that  day  was  'ere,"  as  he  turned 
with  a  benign  smile  and  made  his  way  to  the  tiny 
kitchen  in  the  rear. 

It  was  a  long  day  for  Murray  McLean.  Not  till 
early  afternoon,  when  he  was  once  more  alone,  did 
sleep  come  to  him.  Waking,  he  felt  much  im- 
proved, and  when  his  nurse  returned  he  found  him 
seated  in  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  The  fever  seemed 
1  have  rapidly  abated.  When  night  fell  the  faithful 
Hawkins  was  still  by  the  bed,  to  which  Murray  was 
now  restored,  genial  and  communicative  as  ever. 

"  I  ought,  by  rights,  to  be  jin'  to  the  meetin' 
to-night,"  he  said  about  eight  o'clock ;  "  for  I'm 
'opin'  there'll  be  a  great  work  done.  But  I  bean't 
goin'— I  be  goin'  to  stay  wiv  the  sick,  an'  I  know 
Dr.  Seymour'll  say  it  was  th'  right  thing  to  do. 
They  do  be  movin'  hav/ful  slow,  the  meeti-i's  do," 
he  added  as  if  to  himself,  shaking  his  head  a  little 
ruefully. 


^^i^iga^amrtt-imA^w 


ill 

m 


u 


190    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"People  not  turning  out  very  well?"  Murray 
ventured. 

"  Dont  seem  to  be  a-grippin'  of  'em,"  his  host  re- 
turneil,  "  ain't  many  comes — an'  they  all  try  to  sit 
on  the  back  seat  after  they  get  there.  There's  two 
things — if  you  ask  me — two  things  that's  a  'oldin'  of 
the  meetin's  back." 

"  Ves?"  interrogated  Murray. 

"  Yes,  two.  One  is  that  there  black  nightgown 
he  wears — 'e  can't  give  it  to  'em  'ot  an'  'eavy  wiv 
'imself  all  wrapped  up  like  that.  An'  the  other  ain't 
any  fault  of  'is— but  it's  bad,  for  all  that;  there 
bean't  any  one  to  lead  the  singin'— that's  the  other 
thing.  An'  a  meetin'  to  save  souls,  wivout  singin', 
is  like  a  ship  all  ready  for  sea  wivo'it  any  water  to 
float  in.  So  I'm  prayin'  the  Lord  to  send  us  soj^e 
one  as  can  sing— an'  to  give  the  Doctor  souls  for  'is 
•ire." 

Murray  listened  rather  listlessly,  and  soon  the  con- 
versation took  a  different  turn.  For  Mr.  Hawkins 
seemed  bent  on  talking,  and  bef^»-';  long  he  was 
groping,  with  considerable  a;  tut-  ,s  too,  for  some 
tidings  of  a  vital  sort  concerning  this  guest  who  had 
been  so  stran^jely  thrust  upon  him. 

But  Murray  kept  his  own  counsel.  Wherefore, 
baffled  in  that  direction,  the  earnest  Hawkins  gave 
himself  up  to  a  recital  of  his  own  past  life,  lay- 


./'■ 


••■^ 


nte  TROPHY  a  JtAMSTER  [VON  191 

ing  it  bare  with  a  candid  faithfulness  ihat  soon  had 
Murray  rivrctted  in  an  intensity  of  .nterest  rema.<- 
able  to  belu)ld.     For  he  had  never  heard  anything  so 
wonderfully  done.     Henry  Hawkins  had  had  a  past! 
And,  as  he  talked,  the  whole  wild  way  wardn    3  of  it 
seemed  to  rise  up  before  him  with  a  vividness  of  de- 
tail that  might  well  have  made  him  >,Ki  .'c  from  the 
recital.     Yet,  while  he  seemed  to  "re    •  -    .ling  back, 
there  was  throughout  it  all  a  reverent  reticence— of 
soul,  at  least —as  of  one  whose  inmost  heart  could 
think   of   those  days   of  darkness   but  to  deplore 
and    to    bemoan    them.     There  was   no    glorying 
in  his  shame,  too  often  noticeable  in  conspicuous 
converts.     Humility,  deep  and  penitential,  seemed 
to  clothe  him  like  a  garment— and  Murray  could 
feel    the    wincing   of  his   soul    as   lie   laid   bare  a 
past  that  seemed  to  have  sounded  every  depth  of 
sin.    "  Hevery  sin  in  the  catalogue— "cept  murder, 
p'raps,"  as  he  said  himself,  the  last  word  suggestive 
of  an  almost  comical  uncertainty. 

"  An'  that's  'ow  I  knows  as  I  was  soundly  con- 
verted," he  went  on  at  last,  leaning  far  towards  the 
reclining  man,  his  transparent  face  aglow  as  he 
spoke ;  "  because  I  knows  as  'ow  I  needed  convertin' 
right  enough.  I  was  like  one  o'  those  there  fellows 
that's  really  drownded— drownded  dead— and  then 
gets    fetched   back   again.     There  ain't   never   any 


i 


192    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

doubt,  wiv  them,  about  whether  they  was  under  the 
water  or  not — an'  they  don't  ever  wonder  if  there's 
such  a  thing  as  fetchin'  'em  back  to  hfe  again.  I 
was  under  all  right — good  an'  deep — and  so  I  knows 
there's  some  One  can  fetch  the  dead  soul  back  an' 
make  it  breathe  again.  An'  it  was  Billy  Bray  that 
done  it — him  an'  God,"  he  added  reverently,  the 
plain  face  of  the  man  aglow  with  spiritual  joy ;  "  an' 
it  were  done  wiv  the  terrors  o'  the  law — not  that  I 
was  afeared  to  die,"  he  pointed  out  with  emphasis, 
"  but  it  was  afeared  to  live  I  was — what  wiv  the 
drink,  an'  the  cursin',  an'  the  steaUn',  an'  the  fightin' 
— an'  everythin'  else  but  murder,  p'raps — I  was  fair 
afeared  to  live.  An'  it  were  myself  I  was  afeared  of, 
sir.  An'  Billy  Bray,  'e  didn't  comfort  me  none — not 
then,  at  any  rate — he  fair  showed  me  how  dark  it 
was  all  round,  an'  how  the  clouds  was  gatherin',  and 
the  thunder  an'  lightnin',  till  I  was  the  despairin'est 
man  in  England.  An'  then — then  I  just  fair  threw 
myself  at  Christ — all  weak  an'  sinful  an'  ravelled  like 
■ — nobodj'  but  Him  could  have  told  I  was  a  man  at 
all.  An'  He  took  me  in— Glory,  'Allelujah !  "  this 
last  with  a  sudden  ecstasy  that  made  Murray  start 
where  he  lay ;  "  He  took  me — an'  He  kep'  me. 
You  see,  He  saw  I  zvas  a  man  after  all — an'  He 
saw  what  He  was  goin'  to  make  out  o'  me.  He 
saw   me    like    I    air    now,"   the    face   beautiful   as 


The   TROPHY  a   TEAMSTER   WON  193 

the  spiritual  lit  it  up,  "  'appy  an'  'opeful,  an"  wiv 
the  victory  over  sin— an'  tryin'  to  'elp  somebody 
else  into  the  Kingdom— an'  advertisin'  Him  as 
done  it.  For  this  bean't  braggin',  mind  you,"  the 
face  now  serious  with  the  thought,  "  seein'  it  weren't 
nie  at  all  as  done  it — it  was  Him,  an'  the  savin'  grace 
He  gave  me.  An'  nobody  can't  hexplain  it  away — 
not  anybody — unless  they  hexplains  vie  away  first," 
and  the  burning  eyes  looked  out  at  Murray  with 
such  a  light  of  passionate  conviction  as  he  had  never 
seen  before. 

The  little  man  paused,  a  self-reproachful  look 
overcasting  the  wistful  face.  "  It  bean't  right  for  me 
to  talk  so  much,"  he  suddenly  announced ;  '•  it's 
a-tirin'  of  you  I  be." 

"  No,  no,"  Murray  protested,  his  eyes  rivetted  on 
the  now  remarkable  face,  his  mind  busy  with  this 
new  revelation.  "  Not  at  all— I've  been  intensely 
interested." 

"  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  bed,"  the  little  man  pursued, 
rising  as  he  spoke.  «  Bean't  there  anythin'  I  can  do 
for  you  ? "  he  enquired,  taking  down  a  candle  from 
the  shelf  above  him. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,  Mr.  Hawkins— I'm  ever  so 
comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  'ope  I'm  not  makin'  too  bold,"  his  host  re- 
sumed a  little  timidly ;  •<  but  don't  you  want  some- 


194    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

thin'  for  that— for  that  there  cut  on  your  cheek  ?  " 
he  enquired  soUcitously. 

"No,  thank  yo-j,"  Murray  answered  quickly;  "it 
doesn't  amount  to  anything  at  all,"  his  face  flushing 
as  he  spoke. 

But  Mr.  Hawkins  had  not  seen  the  flush.  "  Might 
I  ask  as  'ow  you  got  it  ?  "  he  ventured  to  enquire. 

Murray  forced  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  that's  a  long  story," 
he  answered.  "  Not  worth  telling  either— only  it 
was  through  my  own  foolishness,  I  can  tell  you  that 
much,"  turning  over  on  the  pillow  as  he  spoke. 

"Aye,  aye,"  the  little  man  responded;  "  aye- 
just  so,  sir.     Aye.     Good-night,  Mr.  McLean." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Hawkins.  And  please  put  out 
the  light  before  you  go." 

The  older  man  did  as  he  was  bidden  and  passed 
upward  to  his  room,  little  dreaming  that  he  was  leav- 
ing his  lonely  guest  to  battle  with  Principalities  and 
Powers. 

For  the  night  grew  tumultuous  about  Murray 
McLean  as  he  lay  gazing  into  the  prolific  dark.  He 
would  have  scorned  to  admit  that  the  influence  of 
this  rude  man's  wonderful  story  was  upon  him— but 
he  would  still  have  been  powerless  to  account  for  the 
nameless  Forces  that  thrust  battle  upon  his  protest- 
ing soul  through  the  silent  watches  of  the  night 
Ht   did  not  seek  the  conflict-but  it  came;  he  did 


The  TROPHY  a  TEAMSTER  IVON  195 

not  consent  to  it— but  from  Afar  the  tide  of  battle 
swept  down  upon  him  and  he  had  to  confront  the 
Eternal  whether  he  would  or  no. 

Whence  arise  these  strange  tumults  of  the  soul  ? 
Whence  come  these  silent  storms  that  now  and  then 
lash  the  spirit  into  foam,  all  unconscious  as  that  spirit 
hath  been  of  their  approach,  knowing  not  whence 
they  come  and  whither  they  go  ?     Why  is  it  that 
sometimes— perhaps    after   long  torpid   years— the 
soul   of  man   is  overswept   by  those  winds  whose 
source  no  man  knows,  knowing  only  that  there  is 
One  who  rideth  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  ?    From 
Whom  it  seeks  to  escap-  in  vain,  the  refuges  of  years 
all  vanished    as   in  a  moment;    ascending   up  to 
heaven,  He  is  there;  making  the  bed  in  hell,  be- 
hold! He  is  there;  the  wings  of  the  morning,  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  sea?— the  former  powerless, 
the  latter  instinct  with  His  presence;  the  shelter  of 
the  darkness  sought  at  last— on'y  to  be  shot  through 
and  through  with  the  same  besetting  Light ! 

There  is  only  one  great  question  worthy  the  mind 
of  man.  Not  the  soul,  let  it  be  remarked— but  the 
mind.  And  that  question  is  this— can  a  man  be 
born  again?  The  cynical  will  frown,  the  superior 
smile,  the  irreligious  despise ;  yet  there  remaineth 
but  that  one  great  query— and  all  else  is  partial. 
This  strange  longing  and  wonder  and  hope  within 


196    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
the  soul— is  there  any  reality  to  match  it  ?    Started 
it  may  be  by  means  the  most  trivial  and  common- 
place, or  by  no  obvious  means  at  all— by  the  snatch 
of  a  once  familiar  hymn,  by  the  low  sound  of  a  child 
at  its  mother's  knee,  by  the  recurrence  of  a  long-for- 
gotten verse  from  the  long-neglected  Book,  by  the 
memory  of  a  mother's  face  or  the  shadowy  vision  of  a 
father  as  he  knelt  in  prayer;  or  by  the  sudden  sense 
of  that  forlorn  obscurity  which  wraps  us  all  about,  or 
the  swift  recollection  of  days  and  deeds  that  refuse 
their  graves  as  we  look  again  into  the  ghastly  faces 
of  unburied  sins ;  or  by  the  dread  acceptance  of  the 
awful  truth,  new  and  terrible,  that  we  have  yet  to 
die— it  matters  not.  but  the  hidden  fear,  the  timid 
wondering,  the  trembling  hope,  never  quite  forget 
their  way  back  to  the  heart  they  knew  so  well  in  the 
far-off  days  of  childhood  when  the  soul  still  dealt 
frankly  with  its  God. 

The  hours  of  that  night,  as  they  went  slowly  by, 
were  terrible  for  Murray.  He  was  not  alone-there 
were  two  in  that  darkened  room.  And  a  cloud  of 
witnesses  compassed  them  about.  And  the  years 
laid  bare  their  stained  and  blotted  pages,  lurid  amid 
the  dark.  And  the  very  day  before,  so  crowded 
with  all  that  emphasized  the  shameful  pass  to  which 
he  had  come  at  last-that  day  was  there,  demanding 
to  be  heard.     All  that  his  soul  loathed,  all  that  he 


The  TROPHY  a   TEAMSTER  WON  197 

knew  to  have  been  thrust  on  him  against  his  will ;  all 
the  stainful  touch,  the  defiling  association  that  he  had 
never  known  but  for  his  weakness  and  his  folly— this 
leered  down  upon  him  and  claimed  him  for  a  familiar 
friend.  And  through  it  all,  alien  and  inaccessible,  yet 
adding  to  his  torment,  there  glowed  the  pure  face  of 
a  maiden,  maddening  as  it  seemed  compelled  to  min- 
gle with  all  from  which  his  soul  recoiled.  And  the 
future!— the  future  that  might  have  been  so  pure 
and  fair  and  happy— this  too  seemed  to  mock  him 
with  its  reproachful  glance,  as  if  to  scourge  him  be- 
fore it  should  say  farewell  forever. 

The  night  was  at  its  darkest,  the  battle  at  its  deep- 
est, when  he  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep.     And  as  he 
slumbered  fitfully  the  night  grew  populous  about  him. 
A  momentary  peace  seemed  to  fall  suddenly  upon 
him— for  a  Presence  entered  the  room.     It  was  his 
mother's  face— and  she  looked  at  him  with  a  wistful- 
ness,  an  unutterable  love  and  yearning,  that  melted 
his  heart  within  him.     He  was  about  to  speak— and 
the  hot  words  of  defense  surged  to  his  lips— but  her 
finger  touched  them  and  he  was  dumb.     Then  she 
held    out    her    arms   to   him,  the   hungering   eyes 
imploring  him  to  come— but  he  could  not.     Whereat 
she  knelt  beside  his  bed,  and  the  dear  worn  hand  was 
laid  i-non  his  head,  his  aching,  wounded  head;  and 
the  gCiide  fingers  toyed  with  the  ruddy  hair  as  in  the 


198    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

days  of  long  ago  and  strayed,  with  love's  inquisitive 
search,  to  the  bruised  and  torn  cheek,  dwelling  lov- 
ingly on  the  still  smarting  wound.  And  he  could 
feel  the  healing  breath  upon  his  face ;  and  the  pitying 
eyes,  like  homes  of  silent  prayer,  seemed  to  tell  him 
the  story  of  her  pain  and  longing. 

Then  she  knelt  beside  the  bed,  her  face  buried  as 
she  prayed.  And  the  words  came  low  and  trembling 
in  their  passionate  entreaty, 

"  Oh,  dear  Lord,  bring  him  back  to  me— to  me— 
for  he's  all  I've  got.     Oh,  bring  him  back— to  me." 

He  awoke,  his  cheeks  wet  with  tears.  And  in  the 
darkness  he  stretched  out  his  hands,  a  faint  cry  break- 
ing from  his  lips—while  he  gazed,  gazed,  as  one 
might  gaze  into  Eternity. 

And  the  burning  eyes  leaped  to  the  light.  Only 
the  dim  light  of  darkness  struggling  with  the  dawn— 
and  only  through  the  little  window  of  a  humble 
cottage.    But  he  saw  the  mountains  and  the  stars ! 

He  listened,  as  one  might  listen  for  the  footfall  of 
death.  And  he  heard  a  v  oice— and  it  was  the  voic  j 
of  prayer.  Not  his  mother's,  but  the  voice  of  another 
—unless  all  the  language  of  true  prayer  be  one  and 
the  same  everywhere. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  lowly  friend  who  had  shel- 
tered him.    And  it  floated  clear  from  the  room  above. 
"  Oh,  C .     "  it  pleaded, "  give  'im  to  me— he's  mine. 


The  TROPHY  a  TEAMSTER  WGN  199 
What  for  was  he  sent  to  me.  if  it  wasn't  to  be  another 
soul  for  my  'ire?  It  was  'im  I  was  askin'  for  all  the 
time,  oh  God,  though  I  didn't  know  it.  Give  'im  to 
me.  oh  Lord— now.*  while  he's  sleepin'— for  he's 
mine."  the  prayer  dying  away  into  inarticulate 
pleading. 

Murray  groped  his  way  to  the  floor,  trembling  in 
every  limb.  Heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  strength 
all  bade  him  rise  and  kneel.  And,  weak  and  trem- 
bling as  he  was,  something  told  him  that  his  dream 
had  been  a  reality— that  the  dear  presence  was 
actually  there— and  he  began  with  the  prayer  of  the 
early  days  of  love.  Still  he  knelt,  the  timid  dawn 
gradually  creeping  i..  about  him,  the  stricken  soul 
dnnking  deep  from  the  Font  of  Healing,  the  van- 
quished life  making  its  full  and  complete  surrender 
to  its  God, 

At  length  he  lifted  his  head  and  called  faintly.  A 
moment  later  the  priestly  pleader  was  besir'e  him  ;  he 
had  heard,  for  his  was  the  listening  soul.  Without  a 
word  he  k  'elt  beside  the  younger  man,  his  arm  going 
about  him  in  infinite  tenderness. 

And  there,,  as  the  gentle  dawn  disclosed  the  holy 
scene,  they  knelt  together,  the  old  man  and  the 
young;  the  cultured  and  the  ignorant;  the  struggling 
soul  and  the  soul  long  familiar  with  that  blessed 
peace. 


200    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  Oh,  I  knowed  it !  "  Hawkins  murmured  at  last  in 

a  broken  voice ;  ••  I  knowed  you  was  comih   'ome 

that's  'ow  I  'eard  you  last  night,  when  I  brought  you 
in.  I  wasn't  sleepin' — I  was  on  my  knees,  a-prayin' 
as  'ow  the  Lord  would  give  me  a  soul  for  my  'ire, 
when  I  'eard  the  groanin'  in  the  dark.  Oh,  my  son, 
I'm  so  'appy  you're  'ome,  safe  'ome  at  last !  Keep  us 
both,  dear  Lord  -me  an'  'im  -till  we  both  get  safe 
to  'eaven,"  the  rest  of  the  simple  prayer  lost  in  sobs 
of  thankfulness  and  joy. 

Then  his  arm  tightened  about  the  quivering  form 
and  he  leaned  over  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead 
with  almost  reverent  fondness.  When  they  rose  from 
their  knees  the  room  was  filled  with  light. 


XIV 
THE   /tU^AKENING    OF   HILDA    LUDLOW 

VAST  was  the  dismay  that  settled  over  the 
Ludlow  house  when  Hilda's  parents,  on 
their  late  return  that  night,  learned  of  all 
that  had  transpired  in  their  absence.  The  first  im- 
pulse of  Simon  Ludlow  himself  was  to  pity  and  ap- 
prove. But  his  wife's  horror  was  so  pronounced, 
her  sense  of  propriety  so  evidently  shocked  at  the 
thought  that  they  were  sheltering  such  human  flot- 
sam beneath  their  roof,  that  he  too  soon  camr  to  feel 
the  indignity  only  less  keenly  than  herself. 

"Just  to  think,"  as  Mrs.  Ludlow  declared  dramat- 
ically, ••  that  she's  in  one  of  our  own  beds  up-stairs. 
And  you  expect  us— you  expect  us,  Hilda— to  go  to 
sleep  with  a  desperate  character  like  that  in  the 
house,  and  not  know  whether  or  not  we'll  be  mur- 
dered in  our  beds,  or  find  the  silver  all  gone  when  we 
get  up— or  anything— anything  that  might  happen 
when  you  have  a  creature  like  that  in  the  house. 
It's  preposterous,  Hilda,"  she  concluded,  mechanic- 
ally feeling  for  the  strings  of  her  bonnet,  so  long  for- 
gotten in  the  excitement. 

20I 


Hilda  smiled  as  she  took  the  bonnet   from   her 
mother's  hands     <•  If  „„„ii  „  , 

"the  poor  th,ng  asleep  on  the  pill„„,  mother  "  she 

-Y=n.,y   ■.,  think  , our  fears  would  disap'eari 

»he  has  a  lovely  face.     Poor,  hunted  thing  •■  '  er 

own  fa,  .  beautiful  in  i,s  syn.pathy  ' 

;l  won',  trouble,"  her  mother  answered  curtly- 

but    ren,ember  one  thing,  l,i,ja_sl,e  leaves  Ihis 

house  m  the  morninB." 

rat,'/"'''"'';'"'""'"'"'  "■••  '^'«"''>^'  ^'""■Pt'd  by  a 
"ther   sfmulatiuB   Rlance  from  his  wife  ,•  ..  yes    of 
course  we'll  let  her  st,„  ,11    •  i 
bed      u  ,  ^       "'8'"'  "°"'  "'="  she's  in 

bed     But  your  mother's  right.  „i,da-,his  ain't  a 

children  s  home,  you  know." 

about      Mrs.  Ludlow  broke  in  a  h„le  impatiently 

=.bles_that  s  the  term-and  of  course  it  isn't     Yes 
you  can  go  ,0  bed,  Simon,"  with  a  nod  .owa;ds  the 

drowsy  man,  ..but  I'm  no.  coming  ye.  a  while-I 
want  to  have  a  talk  with  Hilda." 

"Don't    talk    ,00    much,"   her  husband   advised 

Talkm  s  all  r,ght^-to  a  certain  extent ;  but  i,  don't 
do  a  tumble  lot  o'  good  after  all,"  a:  he  y  wn  d 
aga^n  and  moved  outward  towards  the  stai.. 

Mrs.  Ludlow  rose  and  closed  the  door,  then  turned 


't 


""•'  ^^''^KENlm  of  HILDA  WmOU'  20, 

and  fa«d  her  daughter.    Grim  delerraination  sat  on 

her  face. 

"  ^""^  y^"  going  to  defy  me,  Hilda  ?  " 

"  No.  mother."     Hilda's  face       ,  very  white 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  with-this  woman  np- 
stairs  ?  "  ^ 

The  gi,,  hesitated.    "  I'm   -I'm  gu.ng  to  try  and 
help  her.  mother."  she  answered,  the  words  very  low 

••  Thafs  ail  right-I  don't  mean  that.     Of  course 
anybody  would  help  her.     But  I  mean -I  mean  are' 
you  goi.,j.  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her-you 
yourself,  I  moar  ?" 

Hilda's  troubled  eyes  looked  up  to  the  stern  face 
above  her.     »  Yes,  mother."  she  faltered,  for  that  face 
was  stern;  "yes.  I  suppose  I  will-I'm   goin.   to 
sfck  to  her.  I  suppose.     And  I  can't  help  her  much 
unless    I   do.  can   I.   mother?"   the   pleading  eyes 
turned  imploringly  to  the  woman  beside  her 

Her   mother   stepped  back  a  pace  or  two.     -  I 
knew  .t  was  coming,"  she  said  in  a  low.  tense  tone 
"  ^  ''  '"'^  ""  ^°  y°"^  father.     I  knew  it  was  coming 
o  this-when  you'd  set  us  both  at  defiance.     And  I 
know  the  end  of  it  all  is  going  to  be^to  be  some- 
hmg  terrible.  Hilda."  she  said  after  a  slight  pause 
her  vo.ce  ominous.     "  Come  here,  come  here  and  sit 
down-there,    beside    me."  taking  her  place   on   a 
cha,r  facing  the  sofa--.  I've  got  something  to  say  to 


i    : 


I..: 
f  - 


204    The  S/MGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
you.     Do  you  know  what  it  -vill  mean-to  you,  to 
us  all_if  this  gets  out  ?    And  if  you  persist  in  link- 
ing    yourself    with    that,   tliat    creature,   up-stairs? 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  that  ?  " 

Hilda's  voice  was  all  broken  now,  and  her  head 
was  bended  low  towards  her  mother.  •-  No,"  she 
answe-ed,  trying  hard  to  control  the  words.  ••  no,  I've 
never  thought  of  that  at  all.  Oh,  mother.  I  d'idn't 
til  of  anything,  anything  at  all.  except  that  she 
was  a  t  jor.  unhappy  girl  and  was  trying  to  escape- 
that  she  had  been  hunted  like  a  partridge  on  the 

hills Oh,  the  cruel,  wicked  creatures  ! "  and  the 

white  fist  was  clenched  as  the  words  gasped  out. 
"  And  she  needed  help-and  I  was  able  to  shelter 
her_and  I  did.  That  was  all  I  thought  about, 
mother-except.  except,  just  one  other  thing.  Yes. 
I  thought  of  something  else,"  the  pale  face  now  lifted 
to  her  motlier's. 

"  What,  may  I  ask  ?  "  came  the  icy  voice. 

"  Well,  it  was  t.iis."  and  the  girl  leaned  back  as  she 
spoke,  the  splendid  head  poised  in  unconscious  power 
as  the  eyes  flashed  the  Hre  of  her  soul ;  "  it  was  this- 
I  thought,  and  I  know  it  was  true,  here's  something 
at  last  that's  made  me  happy.  Oh,  mother,"  and 
now  the  voice  was  openly  in  ruins,  "  I  was  so  happy 
-when  I  was  able  just  to  do  that  one  life  t.ny  thing 
I  know  it  was  nothing-didn't  amount  to  anything 


7he  /IIV^KEN/NG  of  HILDA  LUDLOlV  x>s 

"but  I  felt  as  if  at  last  I  had  had  a  ta^tc  of  real  hap- 
piness." 

"  Happiness  !  "  the  mother  interrupted  scornfully ;  ' 
"  happiness,  Hilda  ^  If  you're  not  happy—if  you 
haven't  had  everything  to  make  j  ^u  happy— .1  don't 
know  who  has.  Don't  try  to  pose  as  a  martyr, 
Hilda— don't.  I  won't  stand  it,"  and  the  cold  eyes 
weio  fixed  reprovingly  on  the  quivering  face  before 
her. 

"  I'm  not,"  the  girl  answered,  her  voice  so  low  as 
to  be  almost  inaudible ;  "  no,  I'm  not  posing,  mother. 
Buc    I've   been   so   unhappy— oh.  so  wretched  and 
mis-rahle,"   the  voice  sharpeninfj  to  a  cry,  "  and  I 
didn't  know  what  it  was  all  about.     I  knew  I  was 
leading  an  idle,  silly,  selfish  life—without  one  sincere 
thing  about  it— but  I  didn't   know  it  was  because 
I    was   meant   for   something  better,  for  something 
higher— as  I  know  now.  mother,  as  I  know  now," 
she  cried,  her  tears  mingling  with  the  words.     "  Oh, 
mother,  don't— don't  look  at  me  like  that,  don't  draw 
away  from  me  when  I  try  to  come  nearer  you,"  for 
the  girl's  arms  were  outstretched  and  she  was  leaning 
forward  yearningly,  desperately,  towards  the  repelling 
form.     "  Help  me,  oh.  help  me,  mother,  instead  of 
being  angry  with  me.     I'm  a  woman."  she  cried, 
half  rising  to  her  feet ;  ••  this  heart  of  mine— this 
heaving  bosom -all  these  tides  that  I  feel  within 


2o6    7he  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

them—they  all  speak  of  life,  mother,  of  a  life  that 
yearns  to  love,  and  to  be  loved,  and  to  help  some- 
body, and  be  useful,  and  play  some  worthy  part  in 
this  busy  world  of  ours.  But  you  know,  you  know, 
mother,  what  a  poor  butterfly  way  I've  lived;  so 
small,  so  selfish,  so  frivolous  !— and  to-night,  when  I 
did  something  worthy,  even  if  it  was  because  I  was 
shut  up  to  it  and  couldn't  help  it;  and  just  when  I 
was  beginning  to  be  happy,  and  feeling  that  I  had 
learned  something  about— about  life's  great  secret," 

she  cried  passionately,  ••  and  about " 

"  You're  talking  nonsense,  child,"  her  mother  broke 
in,  her  face  whiter  than  Hilda's,  "  standing  there  and 
lecturing  me  like  I  was  a  schoolgirl.  And  I  won't 
have  your  preaching,  I  tell  you  that,"  as  she  too  arose 
and  began  to  move  away. 

But  Hilda  followed  her,  like  one  who  heard  not, 

her  arms  still  outstretched.    "  Yes,"  she  went  on  in 

trembling  earnestness,  "just  when  I  was  beginning 

to  feel  that  perhaps  something  had  come  at  last  that 

might  really  show  me  who  I  was.  and  what  I  might 

do,  and  teach  me— teach  me  the  joy  of  it  all,  then 

you  turn  and  blame  me,  and  thrust  me  from  you.  and 

heap  scorn  upon  it  all— and  then  tell  me  that  it's  all 

going  to  end  in,  in  trouble,  between  us— between  you 

and  me,  mother,"  the  voice  now  sobbing  in  broken- 

nc  iS  as  she  turned  and  flung  hersea'  into  a  chair,  her 


ne  AH^AKENING  of  HILDA  LUDLOW  .07 

face  buried  in  her  hands  while  her  whole  frame  shook 
with  tlie  storm  of  grief. 

The  mother  turned  and  came  over  till  she  stood 
above  her.  Her  face  was  fixed  and  drawn.  Once 
or  twice  she  tried  to  speak,  something  seeming  to 
hold  her  back,  before  the  words  came  at  last 

"  Have  you  thought.  Hilda,  of  how  this  will-will 
affect— your  relations  with  Mr.  Holmes  ?  " 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  Hilda's  sobbing 
stopped  with  startling  suddenness;  the  bended  form 
was  almost  rigid  now.  She  seemed  to  have  stopped 
breathing.  ^ 

"Answer  my  question,  Hilda."  her   mother  de- 
manded tensely.    A  strange  smile,  as  of  one  who 
has  gamed  a  point  at  last,  was  on  her  face.     This 
she  thought,  had  struck  home   to   her   daughter's' 
heart-tlus.  at  last,  would  ^^v^  her  pause 

"Answer  me."  she  repeated,  drawing  a  little 
<^oser;  -what  will  he-what  will  Mr.  Holmes- 
thmk  of  this?    And  ^vhat  will  he  ^.-if  you  per- 

She  waited  a  minute.  Possibly  two.  Then  slowly 
the  girl  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands  and  turned  ,t 
towards  her  mother.  The  woman  started  as  she  saw 
the  expression  on  it.  so  unlike  what  she  had  hoped 
for  and  expected.  For  no  trace  of  fear  or  misgiving 
of  regret   or   weakening,   was   there.     But   instead' 


at 


,  I 


208    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTEN/iY 

glowing  with  an  almost  unearthly  light,  the  girl's 
face  was  transfigured  with  strength  and  passion.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  woman  now.  And  the  might  of 
great  emotion  was  upon  it ;  great  scorn,  too ;  purity 
and  strength  seemed  to  look  out  from  the  flashing 
eyes  and  to  glow  in  the  flaming  cheeks. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  straightening  herself  in 
unconscious  dignity.  Then,  her  face  turned  full  on 
the  startled  woman,  the  words  came  low  and  firm, 
burning  with  the  emotion  that  consumed  her. 

"  I  hate  him,"  she  said,  her  head  thrown  back  like 
some  prophetess  of  old ;  "  I  scorn  him— scorn  the 
ground  he  walks  on.  And  he  will  never  dare  to 
darken  that  door  again.  He  was  here— he  was  here 
to-night,  mother.  And  I  sent  him  away— out,"  and 
her  voice  suddenly  swelled  with  a  power  she  could 
not  control,  "  out— into  the  night— where  he  belongs. 
Never  to  return,  mother — never,  never,"  and  now  it 
was  the  older  woman  who  almost  cowered  before  the 
gust  of  passion  that  broke  through  the  words  and 
armed  this  maiden  with  a  nameless  strength. 

Then,  summoning  all  her  powers  of  resistance, 
Mrs,  Ludlow  turned  on  her  daughter,  gathering  force 
and  courage  wi  her  words,  and  upbraided  her  with 
bitter  speech.  Loudly  she  demanded  explanation 
of  this  sudden  attitude,  loudly  declaimed  against 
what  she  called  her  fickleness  and  cruelty,  to  say 


-  ■•*■ 


The  ^U-AKENING  of  HILDA  LUDLOIV  209 

nothing  of  the  shipwreck  she  was  making  of  the 
prospects  for  her  future  hfe. 

Hilda  waited  till  she  was  through.  But  before 
her  mother  had  finished  the  girl's  face  was  aglow 
with  a  light  that  had  never  been  there  before,  the  eyes 
shmmg  with  a  wistful  radiance  as  they  seemed  to 
look  out.  far  out.  into  the  future.  And  a  strange 
gentleness  was  in  her  voice  as  she  answered-and 
about  her  whole  bearing  an  aloofness  that  made  the 
woman  beside  her  wonder. 

"  M  her,"  she  began  in  a  voice  whose  lowness 
almost  startled  the  other;  "  mother,  I  bdieve  you'd 
maie  me_make  me  marry  him."  the  pallid  face  now 
flushmg  with  sudden  flame-"  if  you  could.  But  you 
cannot,  mother-never-and  father  cannot.  And  no 
power  on  earth  ever  can.  He  has  gone  out  of  my 
hfe.  forever." 

Her  mother's  face  was  white  as  death.  "  And 
what's  ahead  of  you  now  ?  "  she  almost  whispered  in 
her  intensity. 

The  girl  straightened  herself,  and  every  inch  of 
the  lithe  form  seemed  quick  with  purpose  as  she  an- 
swered. 

"  I  know  what's  ahead  of  me."  she  said,  her  voice 
firm  though  her  lips  were  trembling.     "  And  I'll  tell 
you,  mother-and  it's  this.     I'll  find  my  king  yet 
mother;  and  he  shan't  be  rich,  or  of  noble  birth,  or 


210    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
great-except  in  soul."  she  went  on,  a  jubilant  note 
thrilling  through  the  words;  "except  in  soul-but 
he  shall  be  rich  in  love  and  strong  of  frame  and  pure 
of  heart— and  he'll  find  me  some  day,  mother.    And 
he'll  recognize  me— yes,  he'll  know— and  I'll  know. 
And  he'll  take  me,  mother,  and  teach  me,  and  help 
me  to  be  true  and  noble  like  himself.    And  I'll  help 
him,"  the  face  brightening  as  she  spoke ;  "  and  we'll 
make  our  own  world— together.    And  we'll  never 
be  poor— no  power  on  earth  could  make  us  poor; 
never  poor,  never  lonely,  never  miserable  any  more.' 
Oh,  that  will  be  lovely !"  as  a  sudden  storm  swept 
over  the  soulful  face,  "  lovely,  lovely-never  to  be 
lonely,  never  to  be  miserable,  and  wretched— and 
useless-any  more,"  with  which,  the  face  so  radiant 
a  moment  before  now  wet  with  the  gust  of  tears,  the 
girl  turned  quickly  towards  the  door  and  groped  her 
way  sobbing  up  the  staiis. 


XV 
THE   SINGER'S  INSTALLATION 

THEY  really  thought  they  were  happy.    At 
least,  all  but  one— and  that  one  was  Hilda 
Ludlow.     The   company  numbered  five; 
and  it  was  called  a  Club;  and  was  devoted  to  the' 
high  interests  of  Bridge.     On  this  particular  after- 
noon they  were  met  at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Ray- 
field,  to  whose  untiring  care  the  club  really  owed  its 
being;  she  it  was  who  had  first  conceived  the  idea 
of  its  birth,  and  who  had  since  fostered  it  till  its 
claims  were  recognized  as  taking  precedence  over 
all  lesser  duties.     -  Whatever  happens,  ladies,"  she 
was  often  heard  to  say.  "  we  must  not  let  anything 
interfere   with    our    Monday   afternoon    gathering. 
You  may  have  to  give  up  something  else,  I.  know, 
but  you  can't  carry  through  an  enterprise  of  this 
kmd  without  a  little  sacrifice.     So  let  every  one  of 
us  be  m  our  places  every  Monday  afternoon."    Thus 
was  the  little  band  kept  together,  giving  themselves 
as  seriously  to  their  duties  as  though  organized  ,or 
the  reform  of  the  Congo. 

It  was  Hilda's  heart  that  knew  it  was  not  happy 
And  hers   the  feet,  slow  and   reluctant,  that  were 

211 


213    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
turned  this  afternoon  towards  Mrs.  Rayfield's  parlour 
where  the  httle  company  were  awaiting  her. 

There  was  much,  in  all  conscience,  to  becloud  her. 
For  one  thing,  she  was  not  coming  from  her  own 
home  this  afternoon,  but  from  a  humble  boarr'ing- 
house  where  she  had  spent  the  last  hour  or  two. 
Thither,  the  morning  after  the  niglit  Murray  had 
brought  the  poor  fugitive  to  her  door,  she  had  taken 
the  girl  so  strangely  thrust  upon  her  and  found  her  a 
temporary  home.     And  her  visit  now  had  been  for 
no   higher  purpose  than  simply  to  see  the  lonely 
stranger,  and  talk  with  her,  and  comfort  her,  and 
confer  about  some  employment  for  the  future.     Yet 
and  herein  lay  the  brightness  of  it  all,  Hilda  Ludlow 
was  beginning  to  recognize  that  life  could  hardly 
confer    any   calling    more    lofty,  any    work   more 
msp.rmg    than   this  that  concerned  the  lowly  and 
despised. 

But  affairs  at  home  had  steadily  been  going  from  bad 
to  worse.  Her  mother,  ahvays  imperious  and  exact- 
ing, seemed  unable  to  accept  the  situation ;  she  was 
mcapable  of  surrender-especially  on  a  point  where 
her  ambition  was  so  vitally  involved.  It  was  she 
who,  the  very  morning  after  the  incident  narrated  in 
the  previous  chapter,  had  a?!  but  driven  the  nameless 
s'ranger  from  her  house-and  all  but  d-iven  her 
daughter  forth  with  her.     Hilda  had  returned  home 


4£5 


The   SINGER'S  INSTALLATION    2X^ 
after  she  had  found  a  place  for  the  unhappy  girl 
only  to  discover  how  sadly  her  relations  with  her 
mother  had  been  disturbed  and  poisoned.     For  the 
older  woman,  resentful  of  what  she  was  pleased  to 
call  her  daughter's  insubordination,  seemed  to  have 
adopted  a  policy  of  frigid  silence,  of  stern  aloofness 
as  the  most  likely  to  effect  the  surrender  she  desired' 
And  thus,  for  all  its  grandeur,  the  Ludlow  mansion 
had  become  like  the  house  of  the  dead. 

••  One  would  think  it  was  a  funeral  Hilda  was 
coming  to,  instead  of  a  company  of  friends,  wouldn't 
they  ?_did  you  ever  see  a  more  dejected  figure  ?  "  one 
of  the  ladies  remarked  as  she  stood  at  the  window 
and  watched  the  slowly  approaching  girl. 

"  Something  on  her  mind,  I  fancy,''  another  made 
reply;  "they  do  say  there  was  a  pretty  row  at  the 
Ludlow  house  the  other  night;  it  seems  Hilda  in- 
sisted on  giving  house  room  to  one  of "  the  rest 

uttered  in  a  low  and   sententious  voice  amid  much 
nodding  from  the  little  group  of  heads  about  her. 

"  And  they  say  things  are  pretty  strained  between 
Hilda  and  '>or  mother."  another  added.  "  You 
know  how  rigid  Mrs.  Ludlow  is  when  she  takes  a 
position-^and  Hilda's  so  strange  herself.  I  wasn't 
much  surprised  to  hear  this  latest  thing  about  her," 
she  went  on  confidentially  ;  "  she  always  7vas  so  queer 
—never  did  seem  satisfied  to  settle  down  and  enjoy 


-^1 


214    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
herself  like  the  rest  of  us.    But  then  she's  an  only 
child,  poor  thing,"  she  sighed  apologetically,  -  and 
that  is  always  dangerous,  you  know—not  that  it's 
her  fault,  of  course,"  she  concluded  magnanimously. 
"  If  the  truth  were  told,  I  think  the  real  difficulty," 
another  of  the  ladies  volunteered,  "  is  just  this—thit 
her  mothers  half  crazy  with  rage  and  disappointment 
because   Hilda  threw   Mr.  Holmes  over  her  shoul- 
der the  way  they  say  she  did.     She  could  have  died 
in  peace  if  she  had  once  got  Mr.  Holmes  into  the 
family-it  seems  he  is  related  to  an  earl,  or  a  duke, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  in  England_any  one  of' 
them  would  do,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Ludlow  is  concerned. 
Hush !     I  guess  that's  Hilda's  step  in  the  hail-here 
she  comes  now,"  as  a  maid  gently  pushed  back  the 
door  and  Hilda  appeared,  some  word  of  apology  for 
her  lateness  upon  her  lips. 

Even  the  frivolous  eyes  that  searched  her  face  when 
Hilda  took  her  seat  and  began  her  play  with  the  rest 
must  have  noticed  that  the  girl's  thoughts  were  far 
away.  Although  she  had  hoped  that  this  recreation 
would  afford  some  diversion  from  her  distracting 
cares,  it  was  soon  evident  that  she  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  keep  her  mind  on  the  game;  and  once  or 
twice  her  partner  called  her  attention  rather  im- 
patiently to  a  misplay  whose  consequences  threat- 
ened to  be  serious.     In  spite  of  this,  and  only  a  few 


^ 


The   SINGER'S  INSTALLATION    .,5 
minutes  later.  Hilda  was  again  guilty  of  some  un- 
pardonable    oversight,    whereat    her    partner.   Mrs 
Urquhart  by  name,  broke  out  in  a  sharp  cry  of  dis- 
appointment. 

Hilda  nushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  "  I  don't 
care."  she  answered  impulsively;  "the  whole  thin- 
isn't  worth  the  bother-one  would  think  eternal  life 
was  at  stake,  the  way  you  speak  about  it."  lookin- 
very  pitifully,  but  very  earnestly,  into  the  face  of  the 
woman  across  the  table. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Urquhart.  with  a  sudden  gush  of 
tears,  threw  her  cards  on  the  table  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.    ••  Oh."  she  said.  "  I  won'i-I  can't-I 
cannot  stand  to  be  spoken  to  like  that.     It's  cruel 
that's  what  it  is-and  me  so  weak  and  nervous  that 
I  ought  to  be  treated  gently !     There.  I  knew  it- 
I  knew  ,t-my  nose  is  bleeding.     It  always  bleeds 
when  I'm-when  I'm  abused,"  fumbling  with  true 
fem.nme  emotion  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a   very 
agitated   bosom   for  the  all-necessary  handkerchief 
wh,ch  is  never  to  be  found  in  cases  of  real  emer- 
gency.     Failing  to  locate  it,  and  her  eyes  still  hid- 
den, the   dainty   hand   was   extended   in  a  general 
gropmg  kind  of  appeal   for  such  sisterly  handker- 
chiefs   as    might    be   forthcoming.     Three   or   four 
being  immediately  proffered.   Hilda's  among   them 
Mrs.   Urquhart  arose,  still  cherishing    the    afili    cd 


ai6    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

and  fluent  member,  and  was  gently  guided  from  tlie 
room  by  Mrs.  Rayfield. 

When  she  returned  a  few  minutes  later,  her  nose 
rubicund  but  quenched,  Hilda  was  still  sitting  like  a 
guilty  thing  amid  dense  silence,  the  cards  lying  un- 
touched upon  the  table.  She  murmured  some  faint 
words  of  apology  in  the  direction  of  the  convales- 
cent. 

"  It's  all  right,"  Mrs.  Rayfield  announced  jubilantly 
as  she  restored  the  handkerchielo  to  tlieir  respective 
owners,  some  of  them  rather  ruefully  inspected ;  '<  I 
put  the  bathroom  key  down  her  back  and  it  acted 
liked  a  charm.    Let's  all  make  up,"  she  appealed 
with  kittenish  glee,  "  let's  all  kiss  and  make  up—like 
we  did  when  we  were  children,"  setting  the  example 
herself  by  performing  the  initial  operation  on  Mrs. 
Urquhart,    this  followed  in   quick  succession   by  a 
series   of  kindred   operations,  head-on  collisions  in 
every   direction,  till  the  affair  resembled  a  firecracker 
celebration  on  a  public  holiday. 

"  Now  we'll  have  tea ! "  exclaimed  the  hostess, 
happily  bethinking  herself  of  the  great  healer  of  all 
womankind-"  and  we'll  finish  the  game  afterwards." 
pressing  a  button  as  she  spoke. 

The  healing  fluid  was  soon  in  evidence,  bringing 
peace  and  good  will  upon  its  bosom.  Silence  van- 
ished now,  and  the  arrears  of  conversation  bade  fair 


lo 


The   SINGER'S  INSTALLATION    .,7 

to  be    soon    mad:    up.     The  atmosphere  became 
gemal.  then  benevolent,  then  rdigious. 

•'  Yes."  Mrs.  Pender  was  saying  as  she  sipped  her 
third  cup  of  tea.  ••  I  often  feel  that  we  women  don't 
reahze  what  a  trust  is  committed  to  us-Ml  trouble 
you  for  another  lettuce  sandwich.   Mrs.   Urquha.' 
they're  so  tasty-or  the  amount  of  good  we  could  d, ' 
>f  we  only  tried.     For  instance,  there's  that  terrible 
famme  that's  raging  in  India  just  now.     Our  Rector 
tolvi  us  about  it  at  church   yesterday  morning      It 
seems  they're  actually  dying  by  the  thousands-and 
to  make  it  worse,  they  are  dying  without  hope.     And 
they  say  those  Hindoo  women  really  still  throw  their 
chddren  into  some  river  out  there-and  they  think 
hats  rehgion.poor  things.     But  I  can't  remember 
the  name  of  the  river-the  Rector  told  us.  though  " 
"  Was  it  the  Amazon  i» "  one  of  the  ladies  ventured 
hopefully. 

•'  I  believe  it  was."  returned  the  other,  as  soon  as 
he  lettuce  obstruction  would  permit;  "  but  anyhow 
1  can  t  help  feeling  that  every  woman  with  a  mother 
heart  m  her  ought  to  help,"  she  added,  stirring  her 
tea  sympathetically ;  .« .ve  have  so  much  to  be  thank- 
lul  for  ourselves." 

"  I'm  going  to  join  the  Zenana  Mission  next  fall  " 
Mrs.  Rayneld  intimated  gravely,  passing  a  plate  of 
patties  in  the  meantime. 


«   /:! 


jf' 


a\»   The  SINGER  of  The  KOOJEWaIV 

"  I'd  like  to,  too,"  another  concurred,  ••  only  1 
really  feel  I  haven't  got  the  time.  But  we  can  all 
help  a  hitlc,  for  all  that,"  she  added  piously. 
"  And  Kivc  a  little,"  suggested  another. 
"  And  pray  a  little,"  came  from  a  tlurd  after  a  long 
pause,  the  suggestion  offered  very  timidly.  Whereat 
silence  fell. 

Hilda    liad    taken    no    part    in    the   conference. 
Standing  at  the  window  and  gazing  out,  her  attention 
had  evidently  been  attracted  by  something  she  saw. 
A  little  way  across  the  street,  alone  on  a  kind  of 
common,  stood  a  low-roofed  house,  dingy  and  insig- 
nificant.    But  very  vital  scenes  may  be  enacted  in 
ytity  dingy  houses;  and  Hilda,  although  she  caught 
but  a  dun  ghmpse  of  one  or  two  moving  figures  in 
the  little  residence  across  the  ^vay,  vaguely  sensed 
that  something  of  portent  was  transpiring  there. 

For  once  she  was  sure  she  saw  a  half-recli,.i,.g 
figure,    heavily    leaning,  raised   towards   the  partly 
open  windovv-and  she  w<  idercd  uneasily  why  the 
window  sliould  be  open  at  all.  considering  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  late  autumn  day.     Then,  too,  she  had 
seen  a  child  run  hurriedly  through  the  yard  to  the 
well,  bearing  back  a  httle  jug  of  water,  agitation  in 
every  step.     She  could  not  see  the  child's  face  with 
any  distinctness  ;  but.  nevertheless,  it  seemed  to  her 
to  bear  some  nameless  signal  of  distress. 


The   SINGER  S  INST  ^  LL/t  T  ION    2iq 

••  Come  away,  Miss   Ludlow."  the  words   of  the 

hostess  I. leaking  in  on  he*   is  she  watched  more  in- 

tcntly  than  before ;  «  we'll  all  feel   fresher   for   our 

game  after  our  cup  of  tea." 

Hild?  'lesitated  a  moment.  "  Who  lives  over  there, 
do  you  know,  Mrs.  Rayfield  ?  "  she  enquired,  point' 
ing  towards  the  little  house. 

Her    friend  stepped   to  the   window.     "I   really 
don't  know,"  she  answered  in  a  moment ;  "  at  least, 
I  don't  know  their  names.     It's  a  widow  and  her  two 
children,  I  believe— although  I  couldn't  be  absolutely 
sure.     They  moved  m  there  a  couple  of  mouths  ago 
—and  I  think  I've  heard  one  of  my  maids  say  that 
the  mother  has  never  appeared  since.     But  really,  I 
don't  know  much  about  them;  I  never  called,  of 
course— one  has  quite  enough  to  do  to  keep  up  with 
one's  c  vn  circle,  haven't  they?    And  besides,  I'm 
sure  they're  very  common  people— you  could   icli 
that  by  looking  at  the  house." 

Hilda  was  already  moving  towards  the  door.  "  I 
believe  I'll  ask  you  to  excuse  me  from  playing  any 
more.  Mrs.  Rayfield,"  she  began  in  slight  embarrass- 
ment but  in  a  voice  that  showed  it  would  be  useless 
to  remonstrate.  "  I  really  don't  feel  like  cards  this 
afternoon— and  besides,  there  are  one  or  two 
things  I  really  must  do  before  I  go  home.  I  know 
Mrs.  Pender  will    be   glad   to  fill  m  for  mc,  won't 


L*\l 


m 


^.M 


<'  ¥< 


^20    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

you,  Mrs.  Pender?"  as  she  turned   to   the  super- 
numerary. 

Mrs.  Rayfields  protest  ;vas  rendered  milder  by 
Mrs.  Pender's  evident  willingness  to  report  for  duty 
immediately,  to  say  nothing  of  the  determination  on 
Hildas  face.  Whereupon  the  latter  was  allowed  to 
depart  in  peace. 

Leaving  the  company  to  their  game  she  made  her 
way  by  a  slight  detour  towards  the  little  house  that 
had  so  attracted  her  attention.  Reaching  the  door 
she  knocked  gently  and  waited. 

But  no  answer  came.  And,  listening  where  she 
stood,  she  caught  a  moment  later  the  sound  of  a 
mufi^ed  wail,  as  of  a  soul  in  deep  distress.  Whereat 
she  lifted  the  latch  and  walked  in.  Following  the 
low  sounds  of  grief,  she  came  to  a  sudden  standstill 
as  she  gazed  upon  the  scene  before  her. 

On  the  bed  in  the  little  room  lay  the  form  of  a 
woman,  majestic   in  the  dignity  and  stateliness  of 
Death      The  eyes  were  closed,  the  thin  lips  sealed, 
the  whole  face  taking  on  the  rigour  of  the  last  re- 
pose.    And   above   her,  dishevelled    in   their  grief, 
bended  two  girls,  evidently  her  daughters,  the  one' 
about  eighteen,  the  other  about  fourteen  years  of 
age.  staring  at  .he  silent  face  with  that  strange  and 
fruidess  intensity  that  so  often  marks  a  vigil  such 


-The   S/NGERS  INSTALLATION   ..r 

Oblivious  to  all  else  but  the  silent  face,  the  gids 
suddenly  started  c^  ,.,..,  ...otion  on  Hilda's  part  be- 
trayed  her  presen,  ..     A  n.om..fs  glance,  however, 
showed  them  that   .T  e  victor  ..as  on  an  errand  of 
love.     The  older  girl  stepped  loru-ard  to  the  stranger 
the  compassion  on  the  pale  face  winning  her  trust  at 
once.     H.Ida  took  the  trembhng  hands  in  both  of 
hers  and  soon  wooed  from  her  the  story  of  their 
gnef. 

It  was  easily  told,  like  all  short  and  simple  annals 
of  the  poor.     Fatherless  a  year  or  two  before,  they 
vv.th  the,r  mother,  had  turned  their  steps  towards  the' 
Kootenay  a  couple  of  months  ago.     "  We  thought  it 
would    cure   mother's   cough-she   caught   it   from 
father,     moaned   the   fatherless ;   -  but  it  was  con- 
sumpt,on-and  we  were  all  alone;  we  didn't  know 
anybody  here,  except  some  people  who  gave  us  some 
sew.ng  to  do-Bess.e  sews  the  most."  as  she  turned 
towards  the  stooping  sister,  "and  I  took  in  a  little 
work  too-but  we've  had  a  hard  time  to  live,  ma'am 
to  say  nothing  of  the  little  dainties  w^e  should  have' 
had  for  mother.     And  nobody  hardly  ever  came  near 
us.  ma  am-you  see,  I  suppose  they  didn't  know  we 
were  here.     And  mother  was  always  so  proud  and 
independent-she'd  suffer  anything  rather  than  let 
anybody  know.     But  I  knew  she  was  so  lonely_oh 
so   lonely,   ma'am-for  we   had   some   nice   friends' 


222    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

where  we  came  from  in  Ontario,  And  she  was  so 
good,"  the  girl  went  on,  her  sobs  breaking  out  afresh; 
"  oh,  miss,  I  wish  you  could  have  been  in  when  she 
died — only  a  few  minutes  ago.  She  prayed  so  beauti- 
ful— and  Bessie  had  one  hand  and  I  had  the  other 
and  we  both  knelt  beside  her  bed.  We  didn't  know 
she  was  dying,  ma'am — till  just  before  she  went;  but 
she  knew,  she  said  she  was  going  home — and  she 
prayed  so  beautiful,  ma'am," 

A  low  surging  sound  o.  grief  came  from  the 
younger  girl  beside  the  bed.  Slowly  she  turned  her 
face  towards  the  other  two.  "  But  she  wanted  us  to 
sing.  Miss,"  she  broke  out,  the  voice  a  piteous  wail ; 
"  she  wanted  us  to  sing  her  Paraphrase,  the  one  about 
•The  White  Array' — and  we  couldn't,  neither  me 
nor  Mary  could.  And  then  she  tued  herself— but 
she  couldn't  either.  Oh,  oh !  I  wouldn't  have  cared 
so  much — and  I  wouldn't  cry  so  bad — if  some  one 
could  just  have  sung  her  about '  The  White  Array,' ' 
with  which  the  poor  child  flung  herself  down  on  the 
silent  form,  her  cheek  close  to  the  unresponsive  face, 
and  poured  forth  the  unavailing  grief  that  so  often 
spends  itself  on  the  unanswering  dead. 

"  Couldn't  you  sing  it  for  her,  ma'am— for  them 
both  ?  "  enquired  the  older  girl  wistfully, 

"  I'm  so  sorry— but  1  cannot,"  Hilda  answered  ; 
"  I  cannot  sing  at  all — come  with  me," 


The   SINGER'S   INSTALLATION  223 

With  exquisite  tenderness  she  drew  the  motherless 
girl  towards  the  two  before  them,  the  one  so  quick 
with  anguish,  the  other  so  majestic  in  the  eternal 
rest.  Gently  she  drew  the  younger  one  upward  to 
her  arms,  and  then,  with  a  compassion  that  had 
sprung  to  life  so  suddenly  within  her  heart,  she 
soothed  and  caressed  them  both.  It  was  a  beautiful 
scene.  Much  there  was  to  separate  her  from  the 
clinging  pair.  Birth,  education,  wealth,  yawning 
social  gulf,  difference  of  circumstances,  opposing 
aims  in  life — all  these  might  seem  to  cleave  their 
paths  asunder  and  deepen  the  chasm  that  divided 
them.  But  beneath  the  sublime  and  awful  Influence 
that  surrounded  them,  amid  the  Majesty  that  con- 
fronted them,  before  the  Sorrow  that  overwhelmed 
them,  they  were  kin'^  by  the  creative  act  of  God  ; 
and  sweet  and  holy  he  hour  that  brought  this 

erstwhile  gay  and  thoughtless  life  into  close  and  liv- 
ing contact  with  these  broken  hearts  that  crept  within 
her  own  for  warmth  and  shelter  and  found  it  furnished 
for  them  from  all  eternity. 

A  new  peace  seemed  about  them  when  Hilda  arose 
and  began  to  prepare  for  departure.  Before  leaving, 
however,  she  turned  her  attention  to  matters  of  a 
more  practical  nature,  so  necessary  when  one  con- 
fronts poverty  like  to  this ;  and  a  hurried  conference 
soon  let  her  know  wherein  she  could  be  of  service. 


■•cf 


224    The  S/NGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

Promising  to  return  soon,  she  stepped  out  on  the 
street— and  there,  walking  towards  her,  evidently 
indulging  an  aimless  stroll,  stood  Murray  McLean. 

A  quick  impulse  seized  the  g  ri  and  she  beckoned 
him  to  corns  to  her.  He  came,  his  face  pallid  and 
wasted  iome,  but  kindled  with  a  light  she  had  not 
seen  there  before.  In  a  moment  they  stood  together, 
each  looking  into  the  other's  face,  each  beholding' 
the  strange  tide  of  emotion  surging  there. 

Hilda  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come,"  she  began  nervously,  as  though  he  had  had 
no  other  purpose ;  "  there's  such  a  pitiful  state  of 
affairs  in  there,"  pointing  towards  the  house  and  pro- 
ceeding with  the  story  l  '  all  she  had  encountered— 
"  and  there  are  a  lot  of  Jiings  to  be  done,"  she  went 
on,  '•  things  that  can  hardly  be  attended  to  by  a 
woman— the  undertaker,  for  instance— and  I  know 
you'll  help  me." 

Murray's  interest  was  keen  and  instant.  Several 
questions  came  in  quick  succession,  answered  by 
Hilda  as  best  she  could.  Just  then  a  sudden  purpose 
seemed  to  possess  her.  She  turned  again  towards 
the  house. 

"  Come  on,"  she  said,  "  come  on  back  with  me, 
and  we'll  go  in— I  know  they'll  be  glad  to  see  you— 
and  I  know  yoti'll  be  able  to  help  them." 

He    protested   mildly,   but  was   soon   persuaded. 


,^ 


The  SINGERS  INSTALLATION  22^ 
And  a  minute  later  she  stood  again,  the  man  beside 
her  now.  in  the  stricken  house.  With  great  gravity, 
almost  reverence,  the  stalwart  stranger  proffered  hJs 
sympathy  to  the  older  of  the  motherless  girls— for 
the  other  still  lingered  beside  the  dead. 

"  She's  still  grieving  because  mother's  last  request 
was  denied  her,"  the  girl  whispered,  nodding  towards 
her  sister  ;  •'  it's  strange,  the  hold  that  has  taken  of 
her  mind." 

Hilda's  face  brightened  as  she  turned  to  Murray. 
••  Mr.  McLean,"  she  began,  ••  you  can  be  of  some 
comfort  to  that  poor  girl.  It  seems  there  was  some 
particular  song,  or  hymn,  her  mother  asked  for  v  hen 
she  was  dj-ing— and  nobody  could  sing  it  for  her. 
And  Bessie— that's  the  younger  one  there— still 
mourns  about  it— and  .he  wants  to  have  it  sung  yet. 
She  asked  me— but  of  course  I  couldn't.  You  must 
sing  it  for  her,  Mr.  McLean;  you  can,  you  know,  I 
heard  you  sing,"  and  already,  strangely  masterful, 
she  had  begun  to  move  towards  the  bended  form. 

The  tear-stained  face  lighted  with  sudden  gladness 
as  Hilda  whispered  something.  Instantly  she  rose 
and  turned  to  the  stranger. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I'll  be  so  glad  if  you  will.  It  will  com- 
fort us  both,  so  much."  she  said—"  and  perhaps  she'll 
hear."  the  lip  quivering  as  she  spoke  the  words. 
"  Here,"  she  said,  turning  to  a  table  by  the  bed, 


-  ..  {'  ■<*•■'■ 


v.:v< 


i^    '^ 


-^^v--:' 


2i6    TA^f  S/NGER  of  'The  KOOTENAI  Y 

"  this  is  mother's  hymn-book-and  that's  the  one," 
opening  at  an  evidently  familiar  page;  •'  it's  that  one 
there— we  always  called  it '  The  White  Array.'  " 

Murray  took  the  hzok  and  glanced  at  tlie  words. 
His  face  showed  that  he  recognized  the  sacred  song  • 
he  too  had  heard  it  in  far  other  days,  and  likewise' 
from  a  mother's  lips.  The  tune.  St.  Asaph,  jubilant 
and  stately,  was  a  favourite  with  him. 

He  motioned  the  girl  to  sit  down.  The  other  two 
drew  in  closer  to  them,  and  tlius  the  little  circle 
was  gathered  about  the  dead.  Every  eye.  even  that 
of  the  singer,  was  fixed  on  the  face  that  lay  before 
them  in  eternal  peace.     While  Murray  sang : 

"  How  bright  these  glorious  spirits  shine  ! 
Whence  all  their  briglit  array  ? 
How  came  they  to  the  blissful  seats 
Of  everlasting  day  ?  " 

The  face  of  the  younger  sister  v/as  beautiful  to  be- 
hold. Steadfastly  she  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  placid 
features  of  her  mother,  as  though  a  sacred  debt  were 
being  paid,  almost  as  though  she  expected  the 
closed  eyes  to  speak  their  gladness. 

The  noble  words  rolled  on  : 


(< 


Lo  !  these  are  they  from  sufferings  great 
Who  came  to  realms  of  light 

And  in  the  blood  of  Christ  have  washed 
Their  robes  which  shine  so  bright." 


The   SINGERS   INSTALLATION  227 

By  tliis  time  the  girlish  form  had  slipped  down 
beside  the  bed,  the  mourner  on  her  knees  as  she 
laid  her  head,  its  tresses  all  dishevelled,  beUdc 
the  dear  head  upon  the  pillow.     "  Sweet,  isn't  it, 

mother ?"  she   murmured,  "sweet  and   holy and 

yoH  suffered  so,  didn't  you,  dear  ?  "  the  words  lost  in 
a  choking  sob. 

Murray's  voice  was  unsteady  now.  But  a  wealth 
of  sympathy  and  love  and  hope— Immortal  Hope- 
mingled  with  it  as  he  sang  the  closing  words.  His 
gaze  was  far  away,  out,  beyond  them  all,  beyond  the 
scene  of  death  and  loneliness,  fixed  on  the  mighty 
hills  that  could  be  seen  in  the  distance.  And 
something  of  their  everlasting  calm,  their  spir- 
itual aloofness  from  the  things  of  Time,  seemed  to 
blend  themselves  with  the  words  of  the  closing 
verse. 


"  Now  with  triumphal  palms  they  stand 
Before  the  tlirone  on  high 
And  serve  the  God  they  love  amidst 
The  glories  of  the  sky." 

He  stopped.  But  the  room  was  filled  with  the 
melody  of  a  grea*:  Peace,  of  an  eternal  Hope.  The 
younger  girl  was  still  bended  by  the  bed ;  her  sister 
was  stroking  the  scattered  locks;  HIda  was  half 
bowed,  holding  a  hand  of  each. 


1  ,jit, 


r '-■■  I."-,'-    ''-Ill Ji     y  ■»     ■     ...  -      .  'Ji'      ■    ima  !>  «W      .  f.ljlj 


ii  . 


J'^^Bl   ; 


aaS    The  S/MGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
Murray  looked  down  upon  them  all,  as  one  who 
saw  the  drama  of  Life  before  him.  touched  with  the 
light  of  the  Unseen-then  he  turned  swiftly  and  went 
on  his  way. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  later  when  Hilda  passed 
out   on  to  the  street  and  started  homeward.     The 
breath  of  love  and  gratitude  was  about  her  as  the 
sorrowing  sisters   bade  her  good-bye.  assured  that 
she  would  soon  return.    And  about  her  heart  there 
flowed  a  peace,  a  deep  and  tranquil  peace,  she  had 
never  known  before.     The  light  of  joy  was  on  her 
face  and  a  strange  secret  gladness  filled  her  bosom. 
She  knev.-  not  whence  it  came;  knew  not  that  the 
long  thirsting  soul  had  tasted  at  last  of  the  Water  of 
Life  itself-and  all  that  touched  her  joy  with  pain 
was   the   memory   of    the  selfishness   and   frivolity 
that  had  kept  her  back  so  long  from  that  mystic 
Spring. 

She  was  already  some  distance  past  the  Rayfield 
house  when,  moved  by  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  she 
turned  and  made  her  way  back  to  ,t  again.  Entering 
without  knocking  she  found  the  hostess  and  her  guests 
busy  w.th  the  game  she  had  renounced  such  a  little 
t.me  before.  Each  one  was  bended  in  intensity  of 
interest  over  the  cards  they  held-for  the  game  was 
close.     Locking  up  carelessly,  they  gave  some  little 


.«©a«Sf13§..; 


The   SINGER'S   INSTALLATION   329 

token  of  recognition  to  Hilda;  one  or  two  made 
mumbled  enquiry  as  to  why  she  had  been  away  so 
long. 

The  girl  waited  till  the  hand  was  finished ;  where- 
upon  the  faithful  Mr?:,  Pender  rose  and  motioned 
Hilda  to  her  chair.  "  Here,"  she  said,  ••  take  your 
cards ;  I  think  I  did  fairly  well  for  you  in  /our  ab- 
sence—you'll win  out  if  you  mind  your  P's  and  Q's, 
Miss  Ludlow." 

Something  in  the  girl's  face  seemed  to  arr-st  the 
attention  of  every  one  in  the  room.  She  was  silent 
for  a  little,  but  all  seemed  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

Very  deliberately,  her  face  white  and  her  lips  quiver- 
ing, she  moved  over  to  the  tabic  but  did  not  sit  down. 
Absently  she  took  the  cards  up  in  her  hand  and 
looked  into  their  garish  faces.  Then  she  laid  them 
slowly  back  upon  tlie  table. 

"  Never  again ! "  she  ;aid  in  a  far-away  voice— then 
abruptly  still. 

Silence  reigned  for  more  than  a  minute.  It  was 
broken  at  last  by  one  or  two  impatient,  almost  irri- 
table, enquiries.  "  Never  again  ! — never  what  ?  Tell 
us  what  you  mean,"  the  hostess  said. 

Hilda  turned  her  white  face  on  them  all.  "  Please 
don't  think  me  prudish,"  she  began.  "  Oh,  I'm  not 
— I'm  not,"  the  earnest  voice  quivering ;  "  I  know 
I'm  not  any  better  than  anybody  else — not  as  good 


aio    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTEN^Y 
but  I  Vc  seen ;  I've  seen  I    Never  again  ! "  she  repeated 
her  voice  strong  and  solemn  now.  her  eyes  far  off  in 
their  ahnost  ghostly  look-for  she  .a«r  again  the  face 
of  the  dead.    "  Im  through  with  this  forever."  she 
went  on  after  a  pause.    "Look!"  as  she  moved 
towards   the  window  and  stood  beside   it.  pointing 
with  extended  hand.    "  You  see  that  house-that  lit- 
tle house  over  there?"     They  flocked  to  the  ^.in. 
dow.  looking  as  eagerly  as  though  it  were  in  flames. 
"  ^^^''^^  ^^«  ^^^'•e  playing."  she  went  on.  "  while  we 
v.-.e  bended  over  those  cards,  death  entered  there ! " 
her  hand  still  extended.     "  Yes.  while  we  were  fool- 
ing  here,  two  broken-hearted  girls,  poo^  friendless, 
alone,  were  bended  a. -.  e  a  dying  mother ;  without 
help,  without  money,  without  friends,  without  love- 
and  the  dymg  woman  struggled  through  the  flood 
and  left  it  all  behind  while  we  were  there."  turning 
w.th  eyes  that  were  now  aflame  and  fixing  them  in 
scorn  upon  the  table  on  which  the  cards  lay  scattered  • 
"and  we  never  heard  her  battling  with  death,  never 
heard  the  wail  of  the  motherless,  the  cry  of  the  broken- 
hearted." her  voice  all  broken  and  sobbing  as  she 
turned  from  the  window  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  the  others  staring  m  ghastly  silence  towards 
he  house  of  Tragedy,  from  one  of  whose  windows  a 
feeble  lamp  had  begun  to  throw  its  gleam.     "  Oh, 
God  forgive  me-God  forgive  me.  and  pity  me.  and 


X 


The   SINGER'S   INSTALLATION   zyi 

help  me !  "  she  moaned  as  she  moved  outward  to  the 
hall. 

A  moment  later,  still  staring,  they  saw  the  half- 
bended  form  of  the  penitent  pass  swiftly  along  the 
street. 


XVI 
THE  KINDLING  OF  THE  LIGHT 

THE  night  Imd  fallen,  deep  and  dark,  when 
Hilda,  unable  to  repel  the  prompting  o/ 
her  heart,  turned  her  steps  again  to  the 
house  of  death.     The  faithful  Martin  was  her  escort, 
and  she  dismissed  him  at  the  door. 

Sharp  and  stern  had  been  the  protest  of  her  mother 
at  the  thought  of  a  course  so  foolish,  so  outrageous 
to  propriety,  as  that  her  daughter  should  demean  her- 
self by  returning  to  such  a  scene  and  among  people 
so  insignificant  and  repulsive  as  she  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  to  consider  them.     Poor  H.Ja,  so  be- 
numbing  is  the  influence  of  constant  irritation-espe- 
cally  If  ,t  be  unreasonable-had  begun  to  feel  her- 
self  almost  insensible  to  her  mother's  prejudice  and 
caprice.     1  he  yawning  gulf  had  grown  wider  day  by 
day  till  Hilda,  adopting  the  language  her  mother  had 
used  in  threatening,  began  indeed  to  tremble  for  the 
future  that  lay  before  them. 

She  knew  it  not.  but  httle  by  little  she  was  emerg- 
ing from  bondage  to  the  lower;  and  little  by  Httle 
obedient  to  that  silent  and  imperious  Power  that  lays' 

232 


The   KIMDLING  of   The   LIGHT  2}) 

its  subtle  holil  upon  the  soul,  she  was  coming  i„to 
servitude  to  the  Ili^'hcr.  Life-and  the  word  is 
animate  -was  opening  before  her.  its  mystic  allure- 
nicnt  besetting  her  inmoU  heart.  And  Duty,  her 
voice  as  yet  unrecognized,  was  demanding  iier  arrears. 
And  God.  disguised  m  human  need  and  sorrow,  was 
whispering  to  lier  awak'-ning  lieart. 

When  she  reached  the  house  of  mourning  she 
found  the  motljerless  girls,  already  worn  and  ex- 
hausted with  long  watching,  preparing  for  another 
night-long  vigil  beside  the  precious  dust.  Such  had 
been  their  training,  such  the  custom  with  the  lowly 
among  whom  they  had  always  moved— the  silent 
form  must  never  be  left  alone  through  the  lung 
hours  of  the  night. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Hilda  sought  to  turn  them  from 
their  purpose,  urging  the  need  of  rest  and  the  high 
independence  uf  the  slumbering  dead.  But  at  length, 
pitiful  of  their  exhaustion  and  almost  stern  in  her 
demand -insist-ng  that  her  presence  was  in  vam  un- 
less she  could  be  of  use— she  prevailed  on  them  to 
lie  down,  at  least  for  a  little,  while  she  should  keep 
watch  alone. 

The  arm  of  the  older  girl  was  about  lier  sister  as 
they  passed  into  the  little  room  across  the  hall  from 
the  chamber  if  death  ;  and  a  few  minutes  later  Hilda 
could   hear   her   voice   lifted  tremblinglv  in  nrav,.r 


3)4    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY  ■ 

Listening,  she  became  fascinated  by  the  pathos  and 
earnestness  with  which  the  suppliant  poured  out  her 
soul,  deep  calling  unto  deep  as  the  simple  language 
told  to  the  All-pitying  One  the  story  of  their  loss, 
invoking  His  protection  through  the  night,  His 
guardian  care  through  all  the  nights  and  days  that 
were  yet  to  come. 

She  listened  breathlessly,  as  to  a  foreign  tongue. 
Yet  she  felt,  vaguely  and  yearningly,  that  the  native 
note  was  there;  and  a  strange  hunger  gathered  in 
her  heart.     What  was  there,  she  marvelled,  about  this 
simple  and  plaintive  prayer  that  had  thus  stirred  her 
soul   from   the   depths,  voicing  her  own  nameless 
longing,  calling  her  to  the  holy  and  unfamiliar  exer- 
cise?   She  could  not  tell— she  only  knew  that  she 
was  trembling  on  the  brink  of  Something,  something 
for  which  her  heart  was  fitted,  for  which  her  nature 
yearned,  towards  which  she  seemed  to  be  drawn  hy 
some  secret  and   impalpable   Power   that  was   not 
herself. 

Soon  the  trembling  accents  died  away  to  silence. 
Dense  stillness  fell,  broken  only  by  the  now  heavy 
breathing  of  the  weary  slumberers.  Hilda's  eyes 
turned  now  and  then  upon  the  regal  face  that  could 
be  seen  through  the  open  door.  There  it  lay,  serene 
and  majestic  in  its  untroubled  calm— and  as  she 
looked  she  wondered  why  any  should  have  so  un- 


The   KINDLING   of  The   LIGHT   235 

reasoning  a  fear  of  the  dead,  all  unrebuking.  uncon- 
demning,  as  they  lie  before  us  in  the  last  great  aloof- 
ness  that  the  grave  itself  can  scarcely  hide. 

A   little  later  she  roie  and  went  softly  into  the 
room  where  the  girls  were  sleeping.     There  was  no 
light  except  such  as  stole  in  from  without; but  it  was 
enough  to  let  her  see  the  faces,  tear-stained  still,  of 
the  sleeping  pair.     Oh !  blessed  sleep !  calling  a  truce 
till  strength  shall  have  returned  before  we  grapple 
again  with   the  enemy  still  crouching  at  the  gate, 
levelling  for  the  time  all  distinctions,  all  difference  of 
circumstance  or  rank,  endowing  the  peasant  and  the 
prince  with  the  same  fleeting  blessedness  !     As  Hilda 
gazed   the   faces  became   clearer  and  clearer  before 
her.     The  younger  girl  was  lying  with  her  arm.  as 
if  still  in  clinging    helplessness,  thrown  about  the 
neck  of  her  sister ;  that  sister's  face  was  touched  with 
ineffable  pity.     And  upon  both,  oh !  so  distinctly 
there  rested  the  light  of  hope,  the  peace  that  faith 
imparts,  beautiful  with  a  sorrow  that  is  commingled 
with  Another's  love.     Hilda  could  read  it  all  as  in  an 
open   book,   the  spiritual  faculty  quickening  within 
her.     And  dimly,  yet  with  the  startling  power  of  a 
revelation,   it   was   borne   in   on  her  that  the  rest  of 
these  troubled  souls  was  rest  in  God.     She  sighed 
wistfully,    her   lashes   wet,   touched   reverently   the 
flowing  tresses  of  the  younger  girl,  looked  lovingly 


i^ 


i 


236    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

once  more  upon  the  unconscious  faces,  then  turned 
and  left  the  room. 

Nor  did  she  stop,  mysteriously  drawn,  till  she  was 
within  the  chamber  of  the  dead.  The  majestic  face 
seemed  to  welcome  her  back;  on  the  noble  and 
stately  featu.es,  massive  with  the  dignity  of  the 
Eternal,  she  r.eemed  to  read  some  sympathy  with  the 
tumult  of  he.-  own  heart-as  if  the  unspeaking  one 
would  call  her  to  the  Secret  and  point  the  ^vay  to 
rest. 

Long  Hilda  stood,  her  eyes  never  wandering  from 
the  awesome  face.    And  as  she  gazed  she  seemed  to 
see,  through   the  eyes  of  death,  into  the  mystery 
of  life.      As   one  in   a  trance  she  stood,  holding 
high  dialogue  with  the  dead.     Her  past  life,  the  years 
that  had  ushered  her  to  womanhood,  filed  in  swift 
review   before   her— how   pitiful,  how  selfish,   how 
wasted  in  the  froth  and  frivolity  of  Time !     Heart 
and  conscience  smote  her  like  a  guilty  thing— and 
there  rose  before  her  a  vision  of  all  life  might  have 
been,  all  it  was  meant  to  be.  all  that  it  still  might  be 
U  the  Power  would  but  touch  and  kindle  it.     Of  joy 
she  thought,  deep  and  real  happiness,  such  as  she  had 
so  faintly  tasted,  but  for  which  her  lips  were  burning, 
her  heart  thirsting  now.     The  girl's  bosom  rose  and 
fell  in  its  tumult-like  the  ocean  mysteriously  troub- 
led  from  its  own   distant  depths-and  the  Presence 


-«-    -- 


7he   KINDLING  of  The   LIGHT    257 

seemed  nearer  than  before ;  life  was  unfolding  before 
her  in  the  light  of  the  Eternal. 

She  stirred,  like  one  awaking,  and  turned  her  face 
towards  the  lamp  upon  the  table.  It  was  burning 
low,  the  oil  near  its  end.  Then  she  moved— for  the 
first  time— over  nearer  to  the  dead.  A  Bible,  once 
familiar  to  those  now  folded  hands,  lay  not  far  from 
the  silent  form.  Reverently  she  stooped— oh,  how 
still,  how  terribly  still,  that  frame  over  which  she 
bended !— then  lifted  the  book  and  stepped  back 
close  to  the  darkening  lamp. 

A  prayer  breathed  from  her  lips— the  first,  she 
thought  to  herself,  and  trembled— that  some  light 
might  arise  in  the  darkness.  With  shaking  hands 
she  opened  the  volume  and  let  her  eyes  fall  where 
they  would.  And  there,  right  before  her,  still  read- 
able in  the  dying  light,  were  the  words  : 

"  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  place  and  I  knew  it 
not.  .  .  .  This  is  none  other  but  the  house  of 
God  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven." 

The  book  fell  to  the  table  from  her  hands.  In 
passionate  pleading  those  hands  were  folded  now  and 
the  pure  face  was  upturned  in  prayer.  Even  a.,  she 
stood,  the  lamp's  feeble  glow  sank  slowly  into  dark- 
ness.  flickered,  and  went  out.  The  moon  had  risen, 
unnoticed  hitherto,  its  gentle  beams  hurrying  to  dis- 
pel the  gloom,  gilding  with  pale  light  the  counte- 


li 


238    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOJENAY 

nance  of  the  slumberer.  Unconsciously,  her  hands 
still  folded,  her  eyes  still  upturned  in  prayer,  the  girl 
moved  over  and  bowed  beside  the  majestic  form,  her 
breath  stirring  the  strands  thatwere  touched  with  gray. 

And  there,  between  the  Living  and  the  dead,  she 
gave  herself  to  God.  Forever  and  forever,  in  a  sur- 
render never  to  be  recalled— in  a  devotion  that  was 
never  to  know  grudging  or  disobedience ;  to  be  His ; 
to  live  for  Him,  for  His  poor  and  His  prodigals,  and 
for  the  Eternity  that  the  darkness  had  opened  to  her 
sight. 

It  was  long  before  she  rose,  and  the  radiance  upon 
her  face  put  to  shame  the  glory  of  the  night.  Once 
she  stooped  reverently,  her  lips  lightly  touched  to 
the  chill  forehead  beneath  her — and  no  trembling 
maiden  whose  tears  bedewed  the  veil,  no  saint  pass- 
ing within  the  convent  door,  ever  poured  her  soul 
more  passionately  through  the  vows  that  were  to 
seal  her  life  forever. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  starting  violently.  A  white- 
robed  form  stood  beside  her.  It  was  the  older  girl, 
timidly  groping.  "I've  come,"  she  said  simply; 
"you  must  lie  down  and  rest." 

Hilda  went  forward  and  took  her  in  her  arms. 
"  Go  back  to  your  sister,"  she  whispered,  the  tone 
strange  in  its  command  ;  "  do  not  disturb  me  now— 
I  was  alone  with  God. " 


Mm, 


The    KINDLING   of   The  LIGHT    23() 

The  girl  turned  her  white  face  on  the  maiden  who 
held  her  in  her  arms.  But  something  of  unearthly- 
mastery  stopped  her,  sealed  the  lips  that  were  ready 
with  their  protest.  She  cast  a  swift  glance  upon  the 
dead,  another  upon  the  living,  then  gently  moved 
from  the  relaxing  arms  and  turned  in  silence  to  the 
door. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  came  back  towards 
Hilda.  "  The  light's  gone  out,"  she  said,  her  face 
still  turned  away. 

«•  No,"  said  the  other ;  "  no,  it's  kindled  now." 


1 1, 


XVII 
SOOTHING    THE   SAi^AGE   BREAST 

IT  was  through  Henry  Hawkins,  as  has  been  told, 
that  Murray  McLean  found  his  soul.     And  it 
was  the  same  Henry  Hawkins  who  stubbornly 
resisted,  and  effectually  quenched,  the  merest  sug- 
gestion  that  the  now  convalescent  Murray  should 
hve  anywhere  else  than  beneath  his  humble  roof 
And  ,t  was  that  identical  Hawkins,  moreover,  who 
having  at  last  prevailed  on  him  to  remain,  cast  about 
to  find  employment  for  him. 

Which   he    shortly  achieved.     And    the  "job" 
which  he  offered  with  much  humility  and  trepida- 
tion, was  that  of  assistant  to  himself.     Now.  'Enry 
was  a  teamster,  as  is  already  known ;  and  the  major 
portion  of  his  work  consisted  in  conveying  heavy 
loads   of  necessary   material,  such   as   flour,  sugar 
molasses,  vegetables,  from  the  railway  cars  to  the 
lumber  camps  which  were  scattered  through  all  the 
region  round  about  tlie  forest-girded  town  of  Rock- 
cJiffe. 

_    •'  An-  I  was  at  my  wits'  end  to  get  a  'andy  man  to 
elp  me,"  he  pointed  out  to  Murray  as  he  pleaded 

240 


i    I: 


SOOTHING  The  SAl^AGE  BREAST  .4, 
with  him  to  accept  the  position,  the  latter  shrewdly 
suspicious  that  his  benefactor  was  merely  making  an 
opening  for  him.  -  IVe  been  hanxious  to  get  one 
for  S.X  month  or  more."  the  little  man  went  on- 
"  an- 1  b'heve  the  Lord  sent  you  just  when  I  needed 
one  the  most.  It's  so  'ard  to  get  a  'onest.  sober 
man.  he  added,  knitting  his  brows.  "  an'  you'll  be 
the  greatest  'elp  to  me  in  the  world." 

"Do  you  think  I'U  be  able  to  handle  the  job  all 
right?  "  Murray  asked  with  some  misgivings 

"'Andle    it!"    rephed    his    would-be    employer. 
"  ^ou  11  be  as  'appy  as  the  day  is  long.     There's 
nothin'  to  build  up  the  inner  speerit  like  'andlin' 
orses.  sir.     It  teaches  a  man  to  control  'is  passions 
-an  he  'as  to  keep  the  straight  an'  narrow  path,  you 
see-an-  then  there's  the  rod  o'  correction,  too.  an' 
the  bit  an'  bridle,  an'  everythin'  like  that.     Oh  yes 
Its   the  Scripturallest  kind  of  a  J  b  there  is.'"  he' 
concluded  triumphantly,  swinging  an  imaginary  whip 
and  tuggmg  at  invisible  reins  to  give  vividness  to  his 
argument. 

So  Murray  was  engaged.  And  he  was  to  have  a 
weekly  wage  and  to  board  with  his  employer.  And 
both  were  happy. 

It  was  the  evening  before  Murray's  first  drive— 
the  next  day  was  to  see  him  on  his  way  to  Bear 
Creek  Camp  with  a  load  of  supplies.     They  were 


242    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTEN/IY 

sitting  together  in  Hawkins'  little  house,  every  foot 
of  it  dear  to  the  youth  who  had  there  found  the 
beginning  of  his  real  life;  and  the  older  man  w  . 
kipeaking  to  him  about  his  venture  of  the  following 
day. 

"  An'  remember,  my  lad,"  he  concluded  after 
many  directions  as  he  rose  to  prepare  for  rest,  the 
earnest  face  all  aglow  with  the  ruling  passion  of  his 
hfe,  '•  remember  Who  it  is  you're  servin',  sir.  It  isn't 
me — it  isn't  the  company — it's  Him,  my  lad.  It's 
Him  that  saved  you,  mind.  That's  what  I  always 
try  to  remember  when  I  goes  about  my  work— 
•  Mind,  'Awkins,'  I  say,  •  as  'ow  you  don't  belong  to 
no  man,  nor  no  company,  but  to  Him  as  saved  you 
an'  Him  as  keeps  you.  An'  always  be  lookin'  out 
for  a  little  job  for  Him,  'Awkins,  an'  don't  never  be 
found  off  duty,  'Enry.'  That's  the  way  I  talks  to 
myself.  An'  that's  what  I  want  you  to  be  doin',  my 
lad — an'  if  you  get  a  chance  over  at  Bear  Creek, 
where  the  poor  fellows  curses  an'  swears  an'  gambles 
an'  drinks,  an'  does  lots  that  grieves  their  'cavenly 
Father's  'eart,  don't  ever  be  off  duty,  lad,  don't  ever 
be  off  duty.  You  know  what  I'm  meanin',  sir,"  as 
the  earnest  face  was  turned  towards  Murray,  the 
little  man  standing  now  with  the  lighted  candle  in 
his  hand. 

Murray  stammered  his  reply.    "  I'd  be  a  pretty 


~l 


\ 


SOOTHING   The  SAVAGE  BREAST     243 

one,"  he  answered,  "  to  start  in  at  that  kind  of  work. 
Me !  that  only  a  day  or  two  ago  was  as  bad  as  any 
of  them — in  heart,  at  least,"  he  added, "  if  not  in  out- 
ward conduct." 

Mr.  Hawkins  set  the  candle  down  on  the  table 
and  turned  again  to  Murray.  •'  My  son,"  he  be- 
gan earnestly,  laying  a  hand  affectionately  on  his 
shoulder,  "  who  was  the  nriost  heloquent  preacher 
that  ever  lived  ?    Who  was  it  now  ?  " 

Murray  thought  a  moment.  ••  Paul,  I  should  say," 
he  answered  slowly ;  "  I  should  say  the  Apostle 
Paul." 

"  That's  who  it  was — right  you  are,"  a  curious 
smile  on  the  face  as  he  hurried  on  with  his  argu- 
ment ;  "  an'  it's  likely  you  know  what  kind  of  a  man 
he  was  afore  'e  got  converted — a-killin'  of  the  Chris- 
tians, an'  breathin'  out  slaughterin's — an'  hactin'  up 
ridickilus,  general  like,  wasn't  'e?" 

Murray  nodded. 

"Well,  'e   got   converted — an'  'ow  long  Ov,  ^ 
think  it  was  afore  'e  was  preachin'  like  'e  was  born  a 
saint?" 

Murray  nodded  negatively, 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  'E  went  at  it  'straightway,' 
so  'e  did.  That's  in  the  ninth  o'  Acts,"  the  old  man 
went  on  triumphantly,  nodding  towards  the  shelf 
where  a  Bible  rested.     •'  No  waitin*  for  gettin'  better, 


244  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
or  whinin*  about  what  a  sinner  he  was  afore,  or 
lookin'  for  emotions,  or  anythin'  Hke  that,"  the 
ardent  advocate  exclaimed  convincingly,  ••  'E  just 
seen  'is  dooty  an'  then  done  it.  sir,"  with  which  tht 
old  debater  turned  and  took  up  the  candle  again, 
bidding  Murray  good-night  as  he  went  m  his  way. 

He  turned  quickly  a  moment  later.  "  Say,  you 
be  pretty  'andy  at  the  singin',  bean't  you  ?  "  he  asked, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Murray  hesitated,  tried  to  laugh  a  little.  "  So 
they  say,"  he  answered  in  a  moment,  "but  I  don't 
know  that  it  amounts  to  much." 

The  old  man  turned  away,  carefully  adjusting 
the  wick  as  he  paused.  "  Them  poor  prodigals  at 
Bear  Creek  be  orful  fond  o'  singin'."  he  said  quietly, 
disappearing  before  the  last  word  was  spoken. 

It  is  easy  to  be  religious  auiid  mountain  forests. 
The  soul  that  finds  no  quickening  amid  everlasting 
hills  and  ever-whispering  glades  must  be  dead  in- 
deed. Right  were  the  ancient  Druids  in  their 
reverent  suspicion  that  God  was  more  accessible 
within  forest  aisL  than  otherwhere;  all  true 
ecclesiastical  architecture  is  a  reversion  to  the 
sylvan;  and  our  pealing  organs  are  Lut  fumbling 
for  the  far-ofif  melodies  of  paradisj. 

As  Murray  Mclean  guided  his  champing  steeds 


SOOTHING  The  SAVAGE  BREAST     .45 

along  the  forest  road  that  frosty  autumn  morning  his 
soul  thrilled  with  the  glory  of  the  day.  the  purity  of 
the  a.r,  the  splendour  of  the  scene  about  him.    And 
there  arose  witliin  him.  not  altogether  for  the  first 
time,  a  deep  desire  to  play  some  worthy  part  in  the 
great  Plan,  to  be  of  service  in  even  Uie  humblest 
way.  to  give  some  helpful  voice  to  the  newhfe  within 
Ins  soul.     He  was  as  one  for  whom  the  night  was 
past,  about  whom  the  Day  had  broken-hke  one 
whose  feet  liad  been  lifted  from  the  fearful  pit  and 
the  miry  clay  and  in  whose  mouth  the  new  song 
had  been  put  by  some  Power  from  afar. 

The  long  miles  passed  quickly  by.  beguiled  by 
many  a  snatch  of  song,  by  many  a  secret  uplifting 
of  the  heart  to  Him  whose  glory  and  might  were 
evident  in  the  Handiwork  on  every  side;  and  it  was 
st.ll  some  minutes  before  noon  when  the  heavily 
laden  wagon  drew  up  before  the  open  door  of  Bear 
Creek  Camp. 

The  foreman,  clad  chiefly  in  red-capped  top  boot 
and  broad  brimmed  slouch  hat  and  a  ponderous  bri.- 
pipe,  was  already  without,  awaiting  his  arrival  ha-  - 
ing  caught  the  lumbering  of  the  wheels  at  a  dista;  e 
of  a  mile  or  more.  His  welcome  was  bluff  bu. 
hearty,  though  his  gaze  was  principally  fixed  on  the 
contents  of  the  wagon,  making  such  inventory  as  he 
could. 


•^v 


^^.^  jr '  43T|.ii 


The  KOOTENAI  Y 

the 


246    The  SINGER  - 

"  Just  got  here  in  i      •     '   o'  time,"  he  said  ; 
boys  was  all  but  ol        rob  .rcy." 

"It's  there,"  Mm.  i;  r.pL^d  briefly,  nodding  over 
his  shoulder. 

"That  there  mar  ;i  '  >  .■  wu.' said  the 

official,  taking  his  i  ^uth  and  pointing 

with  it  towards  a  hail  bree.  had  already  begun 

tying  up  the  reins.    •   Jome  .a  ..i^grub'll  be  ready 
'\n.  a  few  minutes." 

Murray  followed  him  into  the  little  log  structure 
which  served  as  office,  store,  and  foreman's  quarters 
all  in  one.  There  was  a  tiny  counter  in  the  place, 
behind  which  were  -  the  supplies  "-mostly  tobacco 
—that  waited  replenishing ;  a  blanket-covered  bunk 
and  a  sheet  iron  stove  occupied  most  of  the  remain- 
ing space. 

The  overseer  seated  himself  on  a  stool,  pointed 
Murray  to  another,  offered  him  pipe  or  cigar,  devoted 
a  moment  to  voicing  his  surprise  at  the  refusal,  then 
drifted  into  ordinary  conversation.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  suddenly  began  a  very  vigorous  scratching 
at  his  right  lejj,  between  the  knee  and  the  ankle. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  puttin'  in  a  night  in  the 
sleep-house."  he  said  sadly,  indicating  the  contagious 
quarter  by  a  jerk  of  his  head  towards  a  rude  structure 
a  few  yards  away.  "  An  old  priest  turned  up  here 
yesterday-several    Catholics    among    the    lumber- 


f 


J 


SOOTHING  7he  SAl^AGE  BREAST  247 
jacks,  you  know— and  he  stayed  all  night.  Gave 
him  my  bunk— so  i  had  to  go  in  with  the  men,"  he 
added  despondentl)',  scraiching  more  savagely  than 
before ;  "  plenty  of  this  ^art  of  thing  to  go  round— 
and  then  some  left  for  strangers,"  he  concluded 
mournfully. 

Murray  descried  an  opening.  «'  Ever  have  any 
Protestant  preachers  here?"  he  enquired,  ben  iing 
over  to  close  the  damper  of  the  stove  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  now  and  again,"  the  man  answered.     "  The 
Presbvterian  parson  from  Rockclilife   used  to  come 
out  once  a  month,  mostly,  and  give  a  talk  to  the 
boys.     At    dinner   time,  you    know—most   o'   the 
men's  workin'  close  to  the  shanty,  so  they  come  in 
for  dinner.     But  he's  away  just  now— s.ck,  I  believe. 
There's   a  duck  from  down  East   handin'  out   the 
goods  at  present— holdm'  some  special  meetin's,  at 
least.     They  call  him  Seymour.  I  believe,  or  some 
name  like  that.     Well,  he  come  out  here  one  day 
last   week."  the    man   went   on.  his  eye  kindling  a 
little,  and  he  suspended  the  frictional  operation  long 
enough  to  apply  a  fresh  match  to  his  pipe.     <•  An' 
he  was  a  bute,  now,  I'm  tellin'  you.     Drove  up  in  a 
top  buggy,  he  did.     An'  he  had  on  a  pair  o'  lavender 
gloves  an'  a  dog  collar  an'  a  hat  with  a  roof  on  that 
sheds  the  rain—you  know  them  kind— o'  course,  he 
had  other  things  on  him  too,"  he  added  wiih  ihc'a.r 


iMi 


=48    T",  SINGER  Of  The  KOOTENAY 
Of  a  man  who  wished  ,o  be  strindy  truthful.    -  An- 
he  couldn  t  eat  any  dinner  'cause  he  go.  a  fly  a  dead 
one,  ,n  his  sou^the  boys  never  have  no  usefta 

r:  ''".'T'  '  ^'^  ""''■  "-^  *'"'^  he's  p  L 
■f  h.  don't  like  the  vittles.    An'  then  he  preached  " 

Thlht 'h  T  '°""^"  ="""«''  -  -'4  as 
though  he  had  come  up  against  a  stone  wall 
J^Good  sermon  r' enquired  Mur«y.  ,iste„i„g  ;„. 

"Pretty  punk    sermon,"  his    companion  replied 
bnefly,,ooki„goutofthedoora„dsmoLgveryhrd 

«glar,a„  «ym' your  prayer,  reg'lar,  an' supportin- 
the  church  reg'lar-with  their  prayers  an'  their  ^ 
hf  <!aI•r^     /-I  •      J  *"«»ycrsan  their  means, 

the  fol        ""'  ""^  °"'  '"-'"  S'-  a  tithe- 
he  1  r  T  °"  "■■*  ^  "^^'^  grin-"  most  ;• 

the  men  thought  it  was  a  new  kind  of  a  coin  ;  then 

he  took  up  a  collection  in  that  there  oval  ha,  o'  his 

hat  Sheds  water.     And  he  got  four  bits,  al,  told- 

oh,  y„.  an  s,x  buttons,  an'  forty-three  o'  them  there 

^n  sumps  the  men  takes  orn  the  T.&B.  plugs 
you  know.     Lord,  but  it  was  funny  1 "  and  thefcrT 
man  showed  hi*  f*.«fv,  •  ^ 

durina  1  merriment  for  the  first  time 

dur  ng  the  conve.ation;  -but  it  was  his  own  fault 
boss-the  men'U  do  the  square  thing  by  the  gen'wine 
art-cle  eve^  time,  but  you've  got'to'showTm  Tn 


J 


SOOTHING  Ue  SAVAGE  BREAST  .49 
you've  got  to  deliver  the  goods.  Shouldn't  wonder 
If  .t's  pretty  nigh  dinner  time,  Cap'n.  Judgin'  by  the 
smell,  as  he  sniffed  scientifically  and  cast  his  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  the  eating  house  beneath  the  trees 
He  was  still  chuckling  *o  himself  as  Murray  followed 
h.m  out.  "Threefold  dooty .'-threefold  fooK"  he 
overheard  him  mutter  as  he  crossed  the  threshold 
smokmg  more  furiously  than  ever. 

A  itw  minutes  later  the  spacious  shanty,  set  apart 
exclusively  for  eating,  was  full  of  husky  and  hungry 
men.     In  they  filed,  the  washed  and  the  unwashed 
but  every  man  of  them  intent  on  only  one  thin^' 
Remarkably  silent,  almost  pitifully  silent,  as  they 
took  their  places  on  the  rude  benches  beside  the 
narrow  tables  that  filled  the  room  on  every  side,  an 
a.sle  of  about  three  feet  in  width  running  the  entire 
length  of  the  building.     The  table  was  already  laden 
With   the  smoking  products   of    the  cook's  skilful 
hands,  borne  in  through  a  door  that  opened  from 
the    cookmg   apartment   immediately  to   the   rear 
Surprisingly  good,  appetizing  enough  in  itself,  was' 
the  fare  provided.     Abundance  there  was  of  meat 
and  potatoes,  bread  that  the  most  delicate  might  have 
desired    vegetables  of  various  kinds,  among  which 
baked  beans  seemed  to  have  the  place  of  honour, 
butter  tasty  and  modern,  molasses  rich  and  amber 
numerous  pies  and  puddings,  the  latter  chiefly  rice' 


li  I'  t- 


250    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

and  plentifully  besprinkled  with  raisins,  all  of  this 
little  the  worse  for  the  plain  tin  dishes  from  which 
each  man  was  expected  to  help  himself.  Huge 
kettles  of  tea,  strong  enough  to  float  the  proverbial 
wedge,  stood  about— all  of  which  provided,  as  may 
easily  be  imagined,  a  veritable  feast  for  hungry 
woodsmen. 

And  Murray,  mindful  of  what  the  foreman  had 
told  him,  set  himself  resolutely  to  eat  a  satisfactory 
meal,  as  though  these  rude  appointments  only  added 
to  his  zest.  Truth  to  tell,  so  long  had  been  the  drive 
and  so  stimulating  the  mountain  air,  he  had  but  httle 
difficulty  in  acquitting  himself  after  a  fashion  to  pro- 
voke the  admiration  of  the  most  sensitive  of  his  fellow 
diners. 

But  all   through   the   meal,  seated   between   the 

foreman    .nd  the  clerk,  he  was  wrestling  with  the 

question  as  to  how  best  to  introduce  the  subject  of  a 

little   meeting  among   the   men.     He  shrank  from 

openly  asking  the  man  in  charge.     Passing  strange 

this,  how  a  cultured  and  educated  man  will  often 

recoil  in  embarrassment  before  some  uncouth  and 

unlettered  toiler.     This  timidity  was  so  pronounced 

in  Murray's  mind  that  once  or  twice  he  inwardly 

decided  to  renounce  the  thing  altogether;  but  this 

was    followed  by  a  secret  uneasiness   he  was  at  a 

loss  to  account  for—and  there  rose  again,  surging 


SOOTHING   The  SAl^AGE  BREAST     251 

strangely  in  his  heart,  the  conviction  that  it  must  be 
now  or  never. 

At  length  he  lit  upon  what  he  thought  was  an 
excellent  introduction.  "  I  say,  Mr.  Lanthorne,"  he 
began,  turning  to  the  foreman,  "  how  would  you  Hke 
if  I  entertained  these  fellows  a  little — after  dinner,  I 
mean,  while  they're  having  their  smoke  ?  " 

"  Bring  a  monkey  and  a  hand  organ  with  you  ?  " 
rejoined  the  other ;  "  or  a  Punch  and  Judy  show  ?  " 

Murray  laughed.  "Not  exactly,"  he  said;  "but, 
seriously,  I  can  sing  a  little — and  I  thought  maybe 
those  chaps  would  like  to  hear  a  bar  or  two." 

The  foreman  was  agreeable,  even  cordial.  "  I  wish 
all  the  blokes  that  stow  away  our  grub  would  chip 
in  like  that,"  he  said  gruffly.  And  a  few  minutes 
later,  with  a  brief  order  to  the  men,  already  in  the 
open  and  beginning  to  break  up  into  groups,  he  in- 
troduced to  them  "  a  friend  of  mine  who  has  kindly 
consented  to  sing  us  a  tune  or  two." 

Stolid,  almost  suspicious  in  their  sullenness,  were 
the  faces  that  were  turned  to  Murray  as,  with  a  pre- 
liminary word  or  two,  he  began  his  song.  "  Annie 
Laurie  "  was  the  first,  that  universal  love  song  of  the 
race — and  he  could  detect  the  softening  on  many  a 
face,  memory  casting  its  wistful  shade.  Then  came 
"  Kathleen  Mavourneen  " — and  even  the  foreman 
could  not  repress  a  gasp  of  astonishment  as  the  won- 


ig^l^BaBMW.>JMUJ»SfaM«Mir'  nTpg 


■.iia^m:i.s: 


253    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

derful  voice  interpreted  the  passion  of  the  words  that 
have  made  the  song  a  classic. 

The  aHair  was  warming  up.  The  men  moved 
closer ;  and  many  a  pipe  went  out  in  tribute  to  the 
subtle  charm  of  the  rich  and  moving  voice,  the  strong 
and  earnest  f^ce.  Then  Murray  suddenly  bethought 
himself  of  an  old  poem  he  had  learned  in  boyhood  : 
"  Twenty  years  ago  "—and  as  iie  began  the  plaintive 
retrospect  : 

"I've  wandered  in  the  village,  Tom, 
I've  sat  beneath  the  tree," 

the  fixed  faces  and  the  solid  silence  bespoke  the  grip 
he  had  taken  on  the  rough  men  before  him,  every 
one  of  whom  again  saw  the  old  schoolhouse,  again 
caught  the  glint  of  some  long  departed  face. 

The  song  finished,  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to 
Murray.     He  leaned  forward  towards  the  men. 

"  Look  here,"  he  began,  '<  I'm  not  going  to  run 
this  entire  show.  I'm  sure  there's  a  Lt  of  talent 
here  better  than  any  you've  heard.  Come  on,  it's 
your  turn— some  of  you  fellows  give  us  a  song  now." 
He  waited.  A  little  mutual  nudging  went  on 
among  the  men.  At  length  one  burly  toiler  lum- 
bered to  his  feet.  "  I  ain't  no  singer,  boss."  he 
began,  "but  I've  got  a  machine  as  does  it— I'll  trot 
out  the  grammyphone,  if  you  like." 


SOOTHING  The  SAk^AGE  BREAST     253 

Murray  hailed  the  suggestion.  The  stalwart  started 
forthwith  for  the  shanty  and  reappeared  a  moment 
later  with  the  "  machine."  Whereupon  his  brethren 
of  the  woods  began  to  bombard  him  with  suggestions 
as  to  what  should  be  selected  from  his  repertoire. 
Most  of  the  titles  smacked  of  the  Bowery. 

"  Go  an'  chase  yourself — I'm  a-runnin'  this  show," 
Murray  heard  him  mutter  as  he  fumbled  among  the 
records.  A  moment  later  he  wound  up  the  thing, 
standing  with  aims  akimbo  as  the  strain  began  to 
flow. 

Ar  '  then,  the  hard  or  frivolous  faces  gradually 
touched  with  tender  memories,  the  old  song  made 
its  way,  grinding  out  in  a  kind  of  harsh  staccato 
through  the  metallic  horn  : 

"  There's  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
And  by  faith  we  can  see  it  afar," 

the  burly  woodsman  looking  far  away  as  though  he 
saw  nothing,  as  though  he  cared  for  nothing,  sphinx- 
like, while  the  old  refrain  of  the  Homeland  fell  on 
every  ear  and  revived  long  slumbering  memories  in 
every  heart.  The  chorus  came,  sweetly  familiar  to 
all  but  the  foreign  born  : 


"  In  tlie  sweet  by  and  by, 
We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore," 


I;  I 


234    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
and  as  the  unforgotten  accents  fell,  nearly  half  of 
the  men  took  up,  in  a  clandestine  sort  of  way,  each 
hiding  behind  the  other,  the  old  and  sweet  refrain. 
The  old  and  sweet  refrain!  dear  ahke  to  priest  and 
peasant   and   prodigal,  voicing   the   unconquerable 
hope  of  the  universal  heart,  the  hope  that  unbelief 
and  worldliness  and  sin  are  powerless  to  extinguish. 
Murray's   heart  was   aflame  as  he  looked  round 
upon  the  men.     Their  faces,  their  demeanour,  were 
a  revelation.     He  detected,  with  the  quick  discern- 
ment of  a  loving  heart,  that  these  dwellers  in  the  far 
and  alien  land   could  yet  hear  and  recognize  the 
speech  of  home,  their  hearts  burning  within  them 
whether  they  would   or  no.     He  felt  rebuked  and 
humiliated—that  he.  whose  ambition  had  been  so 
high  and  so  spiritual,  whose  vision  of  service  so  up- 
lifting, should  have  spent  his  strength  toying  in  the 
shallows  while  it  had  remained  for  a  rude  lumber- 
jack, coarse  of  life  and  profane  of  speech,  to  sound 
the  nobler  note  and  to  call  the  hearts  of  his  fellows 
to  things  unseen. 

A  great  hunger  of  soul  seemed  to  seize  him.  A 
great  compassion,  too.  not  unmixed  with  reverence 
for  the  immortals  before  him.  all  disguised  though 
they  might  be.  The  souls  of  men  were  there.  As 
Michael  Angelo,  so  it  is  said,  would  regard  with 
feverish  hope  some  block  of  marble,  discarded  and 


^i^ 


SOOTHING  The  SAVAGE  BREAST  255 
despised,  because  he  saw  within  the  gleam  of  an  im- 
prisoned angel's  face,  so  did  the  young  evangelist, 
illumined  by  a  new  and  hidden  flame,  behold  the 
kings  and  priests  to  God  that  sat  concealed  behind 
the  forbidding  clay. 

He  turned  and  spoke  a  few  hurried  words  to  the 
foreman  beside  him.     Then  he  addressed  himself  to 
the  men  ;  and  the  least  responsive  could  hardly  have 
failed   to   mark  the  altered  mien,  the  loftier  note. 
Very  simply,  earnestly,  humbly,  he  told  them  that  he 
wished  to  speak  a  few  words  about  the  higher  things 
—about  the  concerns  of  the  soul.     And  then,  with  a 
deftness  born  of  sincerity  and  love,  he  tried  for  the 
first  time  the  wondrous  wings  of  speech.    And  lo ! 
they  bore  him.     And  little  by  little,  gathering  con- 
fidence as  he  proceeded,  he  talked  to  them,  though 
he  knew  it  not,  of  the  deep  thmgs  of  God.     O^  their 
old  home  far  away,  of  the  halcyon  days  of  boyhood, 
of  the  first  temptation,  the  first  conflict,  the  first  de- 
feat;   of  sin— and  all   its   ghastly  train.     Of  their 
mothers,  of  those  lives  so  pure  and  holy ;  of  their 
lips,  some  now  forever  stilled,  that  had  never  ceased 
to  pray  for  the  wandering  son.     He  told  them  of  his 
own  mother,  of  his  last  night  at  home,  of  that  gravel 
walk  along  which  he  had  gone  forth  to  the  waiting 
world,  and  of  that  burning  lamp  she  had  held  so  high. 
Frankly  he  told  them,  though  in  language  all  im- 


ff  i 

i  ii'i 


I 


li. 


li 


256    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

personal,  of  his  own  prodigal  days,  of  the  husks  and 
the  hunger,  of  the  strange  beckoning  home,  of  the 
Welcome  and  the  Caress  and  the  Power.  And  then 
he  pleaded  with  them ;  with  infinite  tenderness,  free 
from  all  taint  of  condescension;  witli  an  eloquence 
of  which  he  was  all  unconscious,  born  of  earnestness 
and  compassion ;  with  a  winsomeness  of  voice  in 
which  the  charm  of  music  lingered  still,  he  told  them 
of  the  waiting  Father,  told  them  they  ere  homeless 
till  they  sought  His  love,  called  to  them  lovingly  to 
return. 

He  knew  it  not;  but  his  face  was  shining  with  a 
beauty  from  afar  and  his  words  were  athrill  with  the 
passion  of  a  hungering  heart,  and  his  plea  was  the 
plea  of  a  great  advocate  pressing  home  the  precedent 
of  his  own  experience,  pleading  with  them  in  simple 
manliness  to  come  and  drink  at  the  living  Spring 
whose  waters  had  revived  his  own  fainting  heart. 
And  the  men  listened  as  to  a  master's  voice. 
His  address  came  to  a  sudden  and  impassioned 
close ;  whereupon  he  intimated  simply  that  he  would 
sing  a  hymn  before  they  returned  to   ineir  work. 
"  Rock  *  <■  Ages"  was  the  one  he  chose,  and  the  men 
listened  enchanted  as  the  eloquent  voice  wooed  them 
with    the   deathless   words.     When   he   was    nearly 
through,  the  foreman  touched  his  arm  from  behind. 
Murray  leaned  down. 


g!^ssgsew5SSSS.«#«isssB»ai^*^^ 


i 


SOOTHING  The  SAVAGE  BREAST  257 
"  Mebbe  some  o'  the  boys'U  take  you,"  he  whis- 
pered—" mcbbe  they'll  close  the  deal.  There's  no 
good  of  trecin'  a  pa'tridge  if  you  don't  bring  him 
down,"  accompanied  with  sundry  confidential  jerks 
of  the  head. 

Murray  understood  in  an  instant.  And,  without 
further  parley,  he  struck  for  souls.  He  called  on  any 
who  would,  to  take  his  stand,  out  and  out,  then  and 
there. 

There  was  long  pause,  a  silence  deep  as  death. 
Suddenly  a  handsome-faced  youth  rose  swiftly  to  his 
feet,  impetuous  purpose  in  every  movement,  in  every 
line  of  the  comely  but  sin-sUined  face.  One  hand 
was  on  his  hip  pocket  as  he  rose. 

••  I'll  come  out."  he  said  with  tremendous  power, 
struggling  with  his  emotion.    '<  I'll  try  this  Way— and 
this   Friend— you've    been  talking  about.     I   want 
some  One  to  help  me,"  he  went  on,  a  hidden  cry  in 
the  voice.    "  All  you  men  know  what  a  wreck  I've 
been—what  a  sot  and  a  drunkard  I've  come  to  be. 
An'  if  He'ii  take  me,  I'll  come,"  he  went  on,  the 
voice  shaking  now ;  ••  if  He'll  take  me,  I'll  take  Him 
—an'  if  He'll  help  me  to  be  a  man.  I'll  try  to  help 
Him  to  make  me  one.     I've  tried  all  I  could  myself— 
an'  I'm  down  an'  out.    I've  done  my  damnedest  in 
my  own  strength— mebbe  that  ain't  the  right  word- 
but  I've  done  the  best  I  could,  anyhow,  an'  I  got  the 


.1,1 

■  i'i 


I 


I; 


2S8    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

worst  of  it  every  time.     So  now,  mister,  if  you  say 

He's  willin',  an*  He's  able " 

"  I  do  say  it.  I  do  say  it,"  came  Murray's  thrilling 
voice;  "  I  know  it.  my  boy_if  any  one  knows  it,  I 
do."  and  in  a  moment  he  was  beside  him.  his  hand 
outstretched. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  mister,  wait  a  minute-I  ain't 
through  yet,"  the  man  broke  in,  the  veins  now  stand- 
ing out  on  his  forehead.    -  IVe  got  somethin'  here 
that's  got  to  be  disposed  of  first-an'  I  calculate  to  do 
it  now."  holding  up  a  small  bottle  flask  he  had  taken 
from  his  pocket;  and,  with  sudden  passion,  his  eyes 
flashing  with  savage  joy,  he  flung  the  thing  from  him, 
huriing  it  against  the  side  of  the  adjoining  shanty 
and  smashing  it  into  a  thousand  pieces.     Then  he  put 
his  hand  in  Murray's,  faced  him,  and  looked  long  and 
steadfastly  into  the  moistened  eyes. 

The  men  were  standing  now,  the  meeting  over. 
Intense,  though  suppressed,  excitement  reigned.  A 
icv;  tried  to  disguise  their  feelings  by  jocular  remarks. 

"  Seems  like  a  terrible  waste  o'  good  material. 
Jake."  one  murmured,  shaking  his  head  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Could  'a'  disposed  o'  that  there  fluid.  Jake."  mut- 
tered another,  •'  without  that  particular  gesture ;  that 
there  stuff"  could  a'  been  put  out  o'  pain  without 
a-breakin'  o'  the  bottle,  Jake." 


■^f^^'^fij 


SOOTHING  The  SAI^AGE  BREAST  359 
But  for  the  most  part,  the  men  regarded  the  affair 
in  its  true  light,  as  a  great  transaction  of  the  soul; 
and  not  a  few  gathered  about  him  and  tendered  their 
solemn  congratulations.  One  of  the  serious  ones  was 
particularly  happy  in  his  felicitations. 

"  Vou're  goin'  to  win  out,  Jake,"  he  said  gravely  ; 
"  never  seen  a  man  more  in  earnest.  Gosh !  but  you 
throwed  that  thing  for  furthei  orders_if  the  shanty 
hadn't  bee:i  in  the  way,  it'd  'a'  gone  plumb  to  hell. 
I  believe  vhafs  what  you  was  aimin'  at— 'pon  my 
soul,  I  do.  That  there  was  one  o'  the  most  strikin'est 
ways  o'  pronouncin'  the  benediction  I  ever  seen."  he 
opined  as  he  walked  off,  still  muttering  to  himself. 

Murray  lingered,  Jake  still  in  his  custody,  till  they 
were  left  alone.  Then,  after  a  brief  word  with  the 
foreman,  he  drew  Jake  into  the  shelter  of  the  office, 
where  the  two  sat  down  side  by  side.  Half  an  hour 
later  they  came  out  together-and  both  faces  were 
above  the  brightness  of  the  sun. 


J^WL§. 


ii 

■if 


XVIII 
LOIRE'S  MESSENGER 

MURRAY  was  enquiring  for  his  team,  pur- 
posing to  start  immediately  on  his  journey 
back,  when  the  foreman  suggested  that 
he   have  a  look   at   one  department  of  the  many 
activities   about   the  camp.     And  a  walk  of  less 
than   five  minutes  brought  them  to  a  scene  of  in- 
teresting operation.    A  brave  little  donkey-engine, 
undaunted    by  the    forest    odds    against    it,    was 
puffing    cheerfully  away  as   it  performed  over  and 
over  again,  with   what  seemed   deadly   monotony, 
its  unvaried  task;  which  was  that  of  dragging  to 
their  doom,  one  by  one,  the  fallen  monarchs  of  the 
forest.     From  afar  they  seemed  to  come,  emerging 
from  impenetrable  glades,  rumbling  and  protesting 
like  living  things,  flinging  themselves  this  way  and 
that  with  many  a  resentful  gesture,  but  inexorably 
borne  on  by  the  heavy  chain  that  kept  creeping  up 
towards  the  engine  like  some  retriever  bringing  in 
the    game.      Then,   the    mighty   grip   relaxed,   the 
victim  lay  lifeless  on  the  brow  of  a  little  hill— at  the 
base  of  which  ran  the  switchback  railway— woefully 

a6o 


;*/ 


LOIRE'S  MESSENGER 


161 


degraded  from  its  erstwhile  towerin{j  estate.  Peevy 
and  caut-hook  fell  upon  it,  sharp  saws  reduced  it  to  a 
fitting  length,  strong  hands  started  it  roUing  ignomini- 
ously  down  the  hill,  so  swift  is  the  descent  of  the 
conquereJ — and,  a  goodly  number  of  the  tirostrate 
now  piled  in  disordered  mass,  the  most  intelligent 
of  cranes  slowly  poised  itself  above,  descended, 
gripped  the  huge  log  in  its  iron  haiiJb  am.  bore  it 
upward  till  it  laid  it  as  gently  on  the  waiting  car  as 
some  dairymaid  might  do  with  the  cgt,^  she  tjathcr? 
of  a  summer  morning.  When  the  rude  'i  .in  at 
length  was  laden  with  these  fallen  kings,  off  :.  went 
triumphantly  to  the  mill  that  stood  a  mile  or  two 
farther  down  at  the  foot  of  the  gentle  slope. 

The  miniature  train  had  started  off,  the  tiny 
locomotive  waking  the  echoes  of  the  forest  with 
such  shrieks  as  befit  those  who  bring  home  the 
spoils,  and  Murray  had  already  turned  his  steps 
towards  the  shanty  when  he  was  attracted  by  the 
beckoning  of  a  young  fellow  standing  beside  a  log 
a  little  distance  from  the  path. 

"  May  I  walk  down  with  you  ?  "  he  asked  a  httle 
hesitatingly — "  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you. 
Yes,  I  asked  the  boss — and  my  shift  isn't  particularly 
busy  now,"  as  he  noticed  the  other's  enquiring  look. 

Murray  eyed  him  as  keenly  as  courtesy  would 
permit.     The  face  interested  him  strangely.     For  it 


iY--i 


m 


262    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
was  the  face  of  one  still  but  a  youth,  and  with  marks 
of  a  native  refinement  he  evidently  had  been  at  no 
pains  to  preserve.      The  delicate  chin  and  mobile 
lips  bespoke  a  nature  probably  voluptuous  and  cer- 
tainly unstable,  with  impulses  of  a  nobler  sort  while 
lacking  the  will  power  to  give  them  execution.     The 
features  indicated  good  breeding,  fineness  of  sensibil- 
ity, and  the  frank  and  rather  trustful  eyes  told  the 
story  of  love  and  gentleness  in  earlitr  days.    But  the 
signs,  alas !  of  coarseness  of  livinjr  were  also  there ; 
a  certain  nameless  something  bespoke  the  prodigal 
and  the  far  country-but  something  deeper  betokened 
that  he  knew  all  this,  and  that  even  yet  his  heart 
might  be  often  turned  towards  heme. 

••  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  the  youth  began  as  they 
made  their  way  downward  through  the  glade—"  I 
wanted  to  thank  you  for  that  sermon,  sir." 
"  Sermon !  "  echoed  Murray,  aghast. 
'•  Well,  I  don't  know  \vhat  you  call  it,"  the  other 
rejoined-"  but   for  what  you  said  to  us  anyhow. 
You  got  me,  all  right." 

Murray  stole  a  glance  at  the  face  beside  him. 
Then,  noting  the  obvious  earnestness  of  the  man,  he 
turned  full  round  and  confronted  him. 

"What    do    you    mean,    my    lad?"   he    asked. 
"First,  what  is  your  nam,  ?" 
"  That's  the  whole  thing."  the  other  answered  with 


LOIRE'S   MESSENGER 


263 


I 


suppressed  feeling,  himself  standing  still  and  looking 
steadfastly  into  his  companion's  face. 

"  The  whole  thing !— What  can  you  mean  by  that  ? " 

The  man  beside  him  hesitated.  "  Say,"  he  began 
abruptly  at  last,  "  I  believe  I'll  tell  you— I'm  passing 
under  an  assumed  name,  here— nobody  here  knows 
my  real  name.     I  changed  it." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Murray. 

"  Well— that's  all,"  the  youth  replied  coolly ;  "  only 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  why  I  changed  it— I  did  it 
after  I  got  out  of  Jail,"  and  he  seemed  to  expect  the 
swift  rush  of  surprise  that  showed  itself  on  Murray's 
face. 

"  Jail  I "  he  echoed ;  "  where  were  you  in  jail,  my 
lad  ? — and  what  for,  if  I  may  ask  ? " 

"  Seattle— forgery,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

"And  what  is  your  real  name?"  Murray  returned, 
rather  at  a  loss  for  speech  at  all. 

The  young  man  smiled  as  he  looked  into  the  ear- 
nest face.  •'  Don't  believe  I  care  to  tell— not  yet  a 
while,"  he  answered  after  a  pause.  "  But  I  just 
wanted  to  speak  to  you— not  for  anything  in  par- 
ticular, either.  But  I  vastly  admired  your  talk  to 
the  men  at  dinner  time,  and  I  thought  I'd  tell  you 
so — it's  only  the  third  sermon  I've  heard  since  I 
heard  my  father  preach  at  home.  Except  when  we 
^tre  forced  to,"  he  added  with  a  slight  grimace. 


i  ;|: 


264    The  SINGER,  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 

"Your  father!"  Murray  returned ;  "then  is  your 
father  a  minister  ?  " 

"Sure— a  Presbyterian  minister— born  and  edu- 
cated in  Scotland,  too.  Oh.  yes.  he's  the  pure  quill 
all  right." 

"  Where  ?  "  pursued  the  other. 

"  Oh,  down  in  Ontario,"  the  knowing  smile  reap- 
peanng  on  his  face;  -  'twouldn't  do  any  good  to  tell 
exactly  where-one  of  the  towns  down  in  Ontario. 
And  I  said  to  myself,  when  I  was  listening  to  you 
this  morning:  there's  a  chap  that  had  a  good  bring- 
ing up.  that's  had  a  Christian  father-just  like  my- 
self." ^ 

"  My  father  isn't  living."  Murray  interruptcd- 
"  but  my  mother  answers  to  that  description." 

"Better  still."  responded  the  youth;  "but,"  he 
went  on.  '•  you've  made  a  great  sight  better  use'  of  it 
than  I  did-you  kept  right  and  I  went  wrong,  that's 
the  difference." 

A  sudden  yearning,  mixed  with  hope,  filled 
Murray's  heart.  He  leaned  forward  and  laid  both 
hands  on  the  broad  shouldei^.  "  My  boy."  he  said 
"  that's  just  where  you're  astray-I  went  as  far  wrong 
as  you  ever  did,  as  far,  almost,  as  any  fellow's  gone- 
or  could  go_and  all  I  was  telling  this  morning  was 
only  the  story  of  how  a  fellow  can  be  brought  back 
again.     Won't  you  come  back  ?  "  he  asked  with  sud- 


LOME'S  MESSENGER. 


365 


den  passion,  his  eyes  fixed  in  entreaty  and  affection 
on  the  face  before  him. 

The   wanderer  shook   his   head.    "  No   use,"   he 
murmured. 

Murray  motioned  him  to  sit  down  on  the  mossy 
turf  beneath  a  spreading  pine.  Then  he  began,  the 
strange  new  fire  burning  in  his  heart  again,  the  spirit 
of  high  covetousness  upon  him,  as  he  pleaded  with 
the  aHen  to  return.  By  and  by  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  little  Testament  and  read  the  immortal  story  from  the 
fifteenth  chapter  of  Luke.  On  he  read,  the  other 
listening  with  rapt  interest,  his  eyes  upon  the  distant 
hill?,  "  And  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off  his 
father  saw  him  and  had  compassion  and  ran  and  fell 
on  his  neck  and  kissed  him,"  came  the  wondrous 
words,  their  magic  picture  of  home  and  love  and 
welcome  glowing  again  before  the  mind  as  it  has 
done  for  centuries,  as  it  will  ever  do  whil*  the  home- 
less and  the  sinful  and  th<r  sad  yearn  for  the  light  of 
their  Father's  face,  for  the  warmth  and  shelter  of 
their  Father's  Iiouse. 

He  stole  a  glance  at  the  face  beside  him  The 
eyes  had  a  yearning  look,  reminiscent,  almast  de- 
spairing; tears  were  there — but  even  these  seemed 
cold  and  reluctant,  as  if  touched  with  iron.  "  Tliat's 
beautiful,"  he  said,  the  voice  requiring  some  control 
— "  I've  heard  it  before,  a  long  time  ago.     But  my 


i 


266    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

guv'nor  isn't  one  of  that  sort— not  very  heavy  on  the 
kiss  business,  my  father  isn't."  a  note  of  bitterness 
in  the  words. 

"  But  the  Other?"  Murray  broke  in  ;  «  your  other 
Father,  you  know—  why  not  come  first  to  Him  ?"  as 
he  leaned  over  and  tried  to  meet  the  gaze  of  the 
stern  face  beside  him. 

But  the  young  man  slowly  rose  to  his  feet.  "  I 
reckon  I'll  have  to  be  going  back  to  work,"  he  said 
—"and  anyhow,  this  conversation's  taken  a  turn  I 
didn't  expect.  But  I'm  obhged  to  you,  all  the  same, 
sir.  And  I'll  have  another  talk  with  you  some  time, 
I  hope— going  to  be  in  Rockcliffe,  aren't  you  ?  " 

Murray  nodded.  Deep  disappointment  was  on  his 
face. 

"  WeU,  maybe  I'll  look  you  up— the  Company,  so 
I've  heard,  is  going  to  send  me  to  the  inside  office  in 
a  few  days,  and  if  that  happens  I'll  try  and  see  you 
again,  in  town,"  as  he  began  to  move  away. 

Thus  they  parted  ;  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
Murray  was  on  his  homeward  way. 

But  as  he  guided  his  team  once  more  along  the 
forest  road  the  world  seemed  new  to  him.  He  had 
tasted  power— and  Jake's  face  gleamed  before  him 
like  a  precious  thing.  The  mighty  hills,  the  tower- 
ing trees,  the  opulence  of  life  about  him  and  the 
richly  upholstered  sky  above,  all  seemed  to  have  a 


LOME'S   MESSENGER 


267 


voice  that  testified  of  One,  all  seemed  conspiring  to 
set  forth  the  glory  and  the  worth  of  life.  "  Give  me 
him,  too,"  he  found  his  lips  murmuring  as  his  eyes 
were  uplifted  to  the  silent  mountains ;  "  all  that  came 
to  Jake — let  it  come  to  him  as  well,"  and  the  scene 
about  him  seemed  to  answer  with  the  assurance  of 
Power  and  Benignity  and  Love. 

He  was  drawing  close  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
when  he  descried,  some  distance  along  the  road  be- 
fore him,  the  form  of  a  woman.  Somehow  there 
seemed  to  be  something  familiar  about  it,  and  he  had 
driven  but  a  few  yards  farther  when  his  heart 
quickened  at  the  sight.  For  heart  and  eyes  alike 
leaped  to  recognize  the  only  face  in  the  whole  wide 
Kootenay  that  could  have  set  Murray  McLean  all  of 
a  quiver  as  it  did. 

It  was  Hilda  Ludlow.  And  she  appeared  to  be 
expecting  somebody,  looking  for  somebody,  for  her 
hand  was  before  her  eyes  to  shade  them  from  ^he 
sun  as  she  peered  along  the  road  before  her ;  and  as 
soon  as  he  was  near  enough  to  be  recognized,  she 
stood  still  and  waited  for  him. 

He  drew  in  his  horses  as  he  came  alongside. 
"  Good  afternoon.  Miss  Ludlow,"  he  began  with 
cordial  warmth ;  "  I'm  sorry  I'm  not  going  your 
way — that  is,  if  you  would  have  consented  to  grace 
a  lumber  wagon." 


I  "I  ■■ 


tl 


I  f 


^68    rkeS/^GERo/Tk.KOOTEN^y 

°<=nng  ,f  he  had  made  too  fr«.    ..  Wdl  ■■  .he  =.„ 
swered   m  a   moment.  "  I'm  not  goin^  anv  farfh 

-.ou-Ica...oj:^,:;"':-;;:.-e.o 

He  was  evidently  startled.    •.  Indeed !  ■•  he  beean 
in  amazement :  "  whv  >       u  .  j. .  oegan 

me  for  ?  ■•  hie  M       ^  ^  ^"  *''  5'°"  »■»«  'o  see 
■ne  for?    h,s  bluntness  forgotten  in  his  surprise 

The  g,rrs  sweet  face  was  very  crave     «  1 
'  '-d  no  right  to  come,  she'srjowlyr; 

afte^*'"""^''""''"^--"  She  concluded 

He  had  leaped  from  the  high  seat  to  the  ground 
">e   rems    still  i„  his   hand.     ••  To  tell  me  r"  he' 
-o-j;;.o.e,lmewhat.-„ha.isit;o:Lve" 

"Its  sad  news,  Mr  MrT  mm  "  ou^ 

fully ;  "  it  was  Dr  C  J  ""''"''■"^  P^'"- 

y  was  Dr.  Seymour  who  told  me-I  suooose 

you  .now  IVe  met  him.  A  teleg.am  came  f  Z 
th.  mor„mg,j„st  after  you  left  ,ow„-,hey  evidem,; 
ddnt  k„o„y„„,  ,,,^^^^_^^  ^^^  .^  / 

i'resbytenan  minister  •  he's  th^  «  i  . 

eot  it    .nH  u  "^"^^  °"^  there,  so  he 


4 


LOIRE'S  MESSENGER  269 

meet  you.  and  let  you  know-you  see.  I  knew  where 
you  were."  .I.c  stammered,  the  colour  rising  i„  her 
face. 

But  he  saw  it  not.  With  the  quick  intuition  of 
sorrow,  lookin,  far  into  the  deep  eyes  before 
h.m.  he  read  all  the  story  without  further  speech 
Blanched  and  pale,  he  turned  and  peered  into  the 
forest,  the  stern  control  upon  him  that  strong  men 
so  often  know  in  such  an  hour.  He  could  hear  and 
could  dimly  see.  a  tumbling  cascade  through  the 
pmes  at  the  mountain's  base. 

"  We'll  go  in  beside  that  waterfall."  he  said  in  a 
ow  voice;  .-in  there-in  that  little  glade  beneath 
the  trees— and  you  shall  tell  me  there." 

He  tied  the  horses  to  a  tree  by  the  wayside,  mak- 
ing the  knot  secure.     Then  he  turned,  the  maiden 
just  behind,  and  made  his  silent  way  into  the  shelter 
of  the  forest,  his  eye  fixed  on  the  fleecy  snatches  of 
wh.te  that  glistened  in  the  sun.    A  minute  later  he 
motioned  her  to  sit  down  on  the  grass,  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  stream;  he  sat  beside  her.  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  waterfall,  sometimes  lifted  to  the  hills 
above. 

"It's  my  mother?  "he  said,  turning  his  gaze  on 
her  and  speaking  very  low.  so  low  that  the  tumult 
ot  the  fall  nearly  drowned  his  words. 

She  nodded,  her  face  wrung  with  sympathy.     For 


i  iiii 


^'  I 


270    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

if  there  is  one  sight  more  calculated  than  another  to 
touch  the  heart,  it  is  that  of  a  strong  man  struggling 
with  the  grief  of  the  motherless. 

"  You  saw  the  telegram  ?  "  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"  Yes — yes,  Dr.  Seymour  read  it  to  me.  And  it 
only  said  the  end  came  suddenly — and  painlessly," 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  he  answered  almost  in- 
audibly.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  un  the  great 
silent  hills — an  J,  as  if  unconscious  of  his  movement, 
he  sank  to  the  grass  beside  her. 

"  She  would  know — she  would  know  in  time,"  he 
said,  his  gaze  still  far  away. 

The  girl  started,  her  keen  eyes  fixed  on  him. 
"  Know  !  "  she  said  ;  "  know  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  man,  "  I  forgot  you  wouldn't  un- 
derstand— I  forgot  you  were  there,"  all  unconscious 
of  how  the  words  would  sound.  "  I  meant  she 
would  know — would  know  about — about  something 
I  wrote  to  her ;  something  that  happened  to  me 
lately,"  he  stammered  out — "  and  I  am  glad,"  lapsing 
at  once  into  silence. 

They  sat,  unspeaking,  while  the  glorious  hills 
looked  down  on  them  and  the  eternal  tide  leaped 
and  bounded  from  rock  to  rock,  its  spray  shining  in 
the  sun.  Long  they  sat,  the  silence  between  them 
deep  as  death.  Then  slowly,  furtively,  she  looked 
up  at  him.     His  lips  were  quivering  now  ;  and  the 


%^ 


LOME'S  MESSENGER 


271 


m 


% 


soul-stirred  eyes,  home  of  a  thousand  memories, 
were  full  to  overflowing.  Yet,  dim  and  blmded 
though  they  were,  they  seemed  bent  on  looking  up — 
after  all,  are  not  the  heights  seen  best  only  by  those 
who  search  them  through  their  tears  ? — up  and  on, 
wistful  in  their  quest  of  ♦hose  Sublimities  that  tran- 
scend these  hills  of  Time. 

"  You're  not  grieving,  are  you  ? "  she  ventured 
timidly;  her  hand  moved  towards  his  arm  as  she 
spoke,  then  convulsively  withdrawn. 

"  Grieving !  "  he  echoed  ;  "  oh,  no— I'm  just  lonely, 
so  lonely,"  the  words  athrob  with  the  emotion  he 
could  not  control. 

"  Because  you  shouldn't  grieve,"  she  went  on,  so 
anxious  to  comfort,  yet  feeling  her  helplessness  so 
much.  ••  Not  after  what  you  say  has  happened  to 
you,  anyway— I  know  what  it  was,"  she  added  with 
sudden  daring.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  know — I  know  what  it 
means  ;  the  joy  of  it,  the  difference,  the  gladness,"  her 
voice  touched  with  ecstasy. 

He  turned,  his  eyes  brimming  still,  and  looked  at 
her  in  wonder.  Wonder,  that  gave  way  to  joy — for 
joy  and  sorrow,  though  we  think  it  not,  are  old-time 
friends — this  in  turn  displaced  by  a  kiiid  of  rever- 
ence as  he  saw  the  peace  and  ynrity,  the  deep 
spiritual  passion,  that  rested  on  her  face. 

"  T/iai  comforts  n      a  lot, '  he  said  beneath  his 


'II     r 
» 


373    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTHNAY 

breath;  and  she  ca^t  on  him  a  look,  swift  and  mean- 
ingful, from  eyes  almost  as  dim  now  as  his  own. 

A  long  silence  followed,  vocal  wiili  the  ferment  of 
two  overflowing  hearts. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Your  mother  was 
lovely,  wasn't  she?  "  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  the  ac- 
cents gentle  as  a  summer  rain. 

He  did  not  answer.  And  she  looked  up  again ; 
the  sight  was  like  to  break  her  heart— for  now  tlic 
strong  man  was  bowed  in  his  grief,  hii  face  hidden  in 
his  hands,  the  hot  tears  escaping  them  as  they  fol- 
lowed each  other  down  his  cheeks.  Sudd>:nly  one 
hand  went  out  in  piteous  groping,  his  eyes  still  hid- 
den. If  met  hers  and  sl-.e  held  it  close.  "  Oh,"  he 
said,  all  restraint  gone  now  from  the  trembling  voice, 
"  I'm  so  lonely — my  mother,  oh,  my  mother  .'—when 
I   >aw  her  last  her  heart  was  broken— and  all  for  me. 

And  now  I  can  never,  never "  the  rest  lost  in 

silence  as  the  stalwart  form  shook  with  grief. 

It  has  been  often  said,  and  often  still  is  said,  that 
womcii's  part  is  passive  only,  receptive,  clinging. 
Bui  if  one  could  have  seen  the  face  of  Hilda  Ludlow 
in  that  hour,  could  have  read  the  strength,  the  yearn- 
ing, the  longing  to  help  the  broken  life  beside  her, 
all  such  theory  must  have  been  revised.  Once  or 
twice  she  actually  moved  towards  him,  stirred  by  a 
clamorous    heart   within— but  as  quickly  site   con- 


I 


LOME'S   MESSENGER.  yjy 

trolled  herseli  and  sat  in  rigid  grief.  A  grief,  too, 
not  her  own,  the  womanly  soul  of  her  sharing  an- 
other's sorrow  with  an  intensity  of  compassion  that 
showed  m  the  quivering  lips,  the  heaving  bosom,  the 
ebb  and  flo-.v  of  the  hot  blood  that  left  the  telltale 
cheek  scarlet  and  white  by  turns. 

Suddenly  she  spoke,  obedient  to  a  tender  impulse. 
"  I  know  yours  is  a  great  sorrow,"  she  began  hesita- 
tingly ;  «'  but  then,  it's  a  beautiful  one— it's  holy," 
she  added  reverently.  ••  There  are  other  kinds  of 
grief  that  are  worse  than  death— and  I  know  that 
kind,"  she  panted  out,  the  words  coming  swift  and 
hot  and  quivering. 

He  controlled  himself  and  turned  about,  peering 
into  her  face, 

"  Oh ! "  she  went  on  passionately,  "  why  should  I 
tell  you  ?— and  vet  why  shouldn't  I  ?     I  simply  must 
tell  somebody—//////^  is  at  home,"  she  went  on  in  a 
voice  that  was  now  almost  a  cry ;  "  and  it's  all  because 
that  same  W\\ng  happened  to  mc— that  you  spoke 
about— and  because  I'm  going  to  walk  that  path  too. 
And  because  I'm  trying  to  /uip  somebody— a  poor 
homeless  girl  that  God  sent  to  mv  door— and  I'm 
trying  to  stick  to  her,  and  help  her,  and  everything." 
Then  she  stopped,  the  delicate  face  hidden,  the  grace- 
ful form  trembling  in  her  grief. 

"  WcJ,"  he  said  gently—"  please  tell  me." 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION   TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^       APPLIED    IM/IGE       Ir 


'653   tost    Main    Street 

Rochester.    Ne«   York         14609       USA 

(716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)    288  -  5989  -  Fox 


274    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  And  mother  thinks  it's  so  awful,"  she  went  on  as 
rapidly  as  though  she  had  never  stopped—"  and  she 
makes  it  a  personal  matter,  and  she  says  I  am  defy- 
ing her.     And  she  says  it  has  to  stop,  all  this  religious 
affair— and  everything  like  that— and  that  I'm  bring- 
ing disgrace  on  the  family.     And  only  this  morning 
she  told  me  it  had  to  stop— or  else  everything  would 
stop,"  with  which  the  flood  of  deep  emotion,  so  long 
held  in  restraint,  overflowed  all  its  bounds  and  broke 
forth  in  a  tide  of  weeping  that  made  Murray  for  the 
time  oblivious  to  the  pain  of  his  own  burdened 
heart. 

Suddenly,  unable  to  do  otherwise— for  the  storm 
that  tossed  this  gentle  frame  and  the  gust  cf  grief 
that  swept  over  the  lovely  face  were  too  much  for 
him— he  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  over  to  where 
she  sat  dishevelled  in  her  sorrow.     He  stood  above 
her,  where  she  could  not  see,  and  his  heart  yearned 
to  tell  her  all— to  beat  back  this  tide  of  sorrow  that 
engulfed  her— to  tell  her  with  speech  of  flame  how 
she  should  be  helped  and  sheltered  ever  more  while 
that  new  life  should  work  out  its  holy  purpose  in  uni- 
son with  his  own.     He  actually  touched  one  floating 
strand  that  had  strayed  from  the  abundant  tresses; 
his  face  was  suffused  with  love  and  pity— and  his 
arms   strengthened  with  the  wild   yearning    of  his 
heart.     But  suddenly,  like   one  who  wrestles  with 


^.-  sm-.r^nffp^—-^  :--^- 


^i-'Ct 


t',^::'m^:. 


'^>^fi^^^m^^€m^''i:^'^m 


LOME'S  MESSENGER  275 

principalities  and   powers,  he  gathered  himself  to- 
gether  and  held  himself  reverently  in  control. 

"Everybody  has  their  own  sorrow,"  he  said 
tenderly;  "and  I  suppose  the  sorest  wounds  are 
often  those  that  bleed  beneath  the  armour,"  still 
looking  down  at  her  with  ineffable  longing. 

Her  eyes  were  never  lifted  to  his  face.  But  in  a 
little  while,  the  storm  having  spent  itself,  she  too 
arose  to  her  feet.  "I'm  going  home,"  she  said 
simply ;  "  I'm  going  back  now." 

"  Perhaps  it's  better,"  he  answered  low;  "  but  I'm 
going  to  stay  here— I  want  to  be  alone." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  as  any  woman  would 
have  done.  Surprise,  curiosity,  something  of  re- 
proach, were  in  the  glance.  Yet  she  understood— 
and  without  a  word  she  turned  and  made  her  way 
beneath  the  sunlit  trees  back  to  the  common  high- 
way. 

He  did  not  look  after  her.  He  had  seated  him- 
self again  upon  the  grass,  gazing  in  silence  at  the 
still  foaming  cataract.  And  he  knew  that  for  him— 
in  more  senses  than  one— there  had  come  the  great 
Waterfall  in  the  stream  of  Time. 


#«l^iiSiSimr 


N-' 


XIX 

THE  ROARIN'  GAME— HOW  MURRAY 
RAN  THE  PORT 

WHEN  Murray  awoke  the  next  morning  he 
felt  it  in  the  air.  He  would  not  have 
been  so  surprised  at  this  sudden  dip  on 
the  part  of  the  thermometer,  had  he  been  more 
familiar  with  the  impromptu  gifts  of  this  western 
clime.  For,  as  late  autumn  advances,  it  is  no  un- 
common  thing  for  the  mercury,  from  the  neighbour- 
hood of  freezing,  to  take  a  cheerful  drop  to  zero  or 
beneath  it. 

Thus  it  had  happened  now— a  slight  flurry  of  snow, 

settling  down  to  the  keenest  and  steadiest  frost— and 

when  Murray  went  forth  to  his  work  that  morning 

his  snorting  team  threw  their  breath  before  them 

in  vapoury  clouds,  and  the  tang  of  winter  was  about 

them.     The  kvf  ladies  that  were  visible  had  donned 

their  vnuffs  and  furs;  and  the  small  boy  could  be 

seen  hurrying  towards   the  pond   with  his   skates 

slung  over  his  shoulder. 

But  skating  is  only  child's  play,  as  Murray  thought 
to  himself  that  frosty  morning-and  his  mind  leaped 
to  the  nobler  sport  that  the  Ice  King  brings  as  his 
supremest  gift,  appreciated  alone  by  men  who  find 

276 


.    -  ■    ■■  1/ 


The   ROARIN'    GAME 


377 


in  its  large  perspective  and  its  far-flung  range  the 
grandest  game  of  life. 

It  need  hardly  be  added  that  that  game  is  the 
ancient  and  royal  game  of  Curling,  a  pastime  so  es- 
sentially manly,  requiring  such  strength  of  hand  and 
keenness  of  vision  and  steadiness  of  nerve  as  would 
be  wasted  upon  any  other  game  besides.     None  of 
your  toy  games  this,  with  their  petty  arena  and  their 
despoilment   at  women's    imitative    hands !— but  a 
massive  game,  with  its  blocks  of  granite  weighing 
from  forty  to  fifty  pounds,  with  its  magnificent  dis- 
tances and  its  delicate  exactions;   for  you  may  be 
asked,  at  a  distance  of  near  one  hundied  and  forty 
feet,  to  move  forward  your  partner's  stone  a  matter  of 
five  or  six  inches,  to  wick  out  your  opponent's  by  a 
corner  rub,  to  lay  a  guard  with  mathematical  precise- 
ness,  or  to  draw  to  the  tee  with  absolute  exactness  ; 
or,  in  wilder  mood,  you  may  be  asked  to  clean  the 
ring  with  a  stone  that  must  be  swift  as  a  bulle^  and 
straight  as  the  eagle's  flight,  or  to  split  an  opposing 
pair,  or  to  carom  off  one  stone  on  to  another,  and 
thence  to  two  or  three,  your  own   to   lie  at  last 
tiiumphant  at  the  tee. 

And  all  this  is  to  be  done  in  that  strong  self- 
restrained  spirit  that  befits  this  game  so  well-after  a 
man's  fashion-worthy  of  this  supremely  manly 
sport.     And  there  is  silence  deep  as  death  to  be 


'W/i 


'IS   The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENa  Y 
pr«erved_so™«im«;  and,  again,  the  rink  is  ,o 
echo  to  th.  most  outlandish  yells  that  ever  voiced 
he  exuberance  of  strong  men's  hearts  amid  the 
frosts  of  wi„t=r_a„d  the  besonB  are  to  be  whisked 

about  hke  mad.  till  the  ice  is  polished  like  shining 
glass;  and  these  same  brooms  are  often  to  be  flung 
aloft  mtnumph,  and  there  are  plaudits  and  con 
gratula^ns  to  be  shouted  from  the  lips  of  skip  and 
men  al.ke-anj  auld  Scotia  is  to  be  honoured  in  her 
'.ncent  game,  and  every  son  of  the  heather  is  to 
rejoice  like  those  who  divide  the  spoil. 

It  15  a  Titan's  game,  this  stalely  game  of  granite- 
and  at  old  Queen's  College  Murray  McLean  had 
been  a  tankard  skip.  For  was  it  not  in  his  High- 
land bbodf-and  had  not  many  a  Highland  Loch 
resounded  to  the  roar  wh,n  his  sinewy  ancestors  had 
thrown  the  stone  along  the  shining  ice  or  plied  the 
besom  to  prepare  its  path  ? 

"It  won't    be    long   till  there's  curling,  if  ,his 
weather  holds,"  Murray  said  to  himself  tte.  frosty 

But  the  next  evening  was  to  prove  the  truth  of 
h^  ,u™,se,  and  to  involve  him  more  strangely  than 
he  1  ad  ever  dreamed.    That  night,  in  company  with 
h  s   nend   employer,  host,  Mr.  Henry  HawkiL,  he 
had  waited  upon  the  ministrations  of  the  Reverend 


1i3 


7 


I 


■The   ROARIN'    GAME  279 

Dr.  Seymour  in  the  Presbyterian  Church.    And  the 
whole  situation  struck  the  youth,  especially  in  view 
of  his  present  ardour,  with  almost  sickening  discour- 
agement.    The  audience  was  of  the  most  emaciated 
kind-and   the   pulpit  was   as  poorly  filled  as  the 
pews.     For  the   Reverend   Armitage,  still   pitiably 
robed  in  gown  and  bands,  made  his  ponderous  way 
through    a   ponderous   discourse,   himself  evidently 
dismayed  and  sick  at  heart.     Music,  as  before,  there 
was  none  except  such  as  was  provided  by  the  faithful 
Hawkins  and  the  inexhaustible  spinster  of  painful 
years ;  the  congregation  languished  with  the  strain— 
and  a  harmonious  torpor  marked  the  entire  service. 

Indeed,  and  Murray  started  as  he  heard  it.  the  dis- 
couraged Doctor  threw  out  a  sombre  hint  that  the 
meetings,  although  originally  designed  for  a  longer 
hfe.  would  probably  be  brought  to  an  early  close 
unless  some  freshet  should  appear-the  revival  meet- 
ings stood  in  sore  need  of  being  themselves  revived. 
And  Murray  marvelled,  but  in  silence-and  still 
said  nay  to  an  importunate  conscience  that  would 
not  down. 

After  the  service  he  waited  for  the  tired  minister, 
the  faithful  Hawkins  also  hngering.  Together  the 
three  walked  homeward  through  the  twinkling  night. 
And  suddenly,  with  but  brief  preliminary,  Dr.  Sey- 
mour renewed    his   request   for   Murray's   services. 


m.: 


28o    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 


I'] 


W 


pressing  the  plaintive  plea  that  his  meetings  were 
about  to  perish  unless  some  such  gift  as  he  knew 
Murray  to  possess  should  be  placed  at  their  disposal. 
Earnestly  he  urged  his  claim — but  still  in  vain. 
Murray  still  refused,  though  with  less  finality  than 
before. 

Suddenly  he  stood  still  beneath  the  frosty  skies. 
For  he  had  heard  a  sound  he  was  at  no  loss  to  recog- 
nize— "  his  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well." 
Every  Scot,  native  born  or  extracted,  would  have 
known  it  at  once.  It  was  a  kind  of  union  of  roar 
and  shout  and  shriek.  He  listened  again— and  some 
word  fell  on  his  ear  that  absolutely  convinced  him. 

"They're  curling!"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  still 
standing  and  gazing  across  the  common  that  inter- 
vened between  them  and  a  low  shed  about  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mr,  Hawkins  volunteered,  evidently 
familiar  with  the  situation — "  it's  the  hopening  game 
of  the  season.  They're  playin'  Moyie,"  referring  to 
a  town  about  twelve  miles  farther  up  the  railway — 
"an'  they  always  hopen  wiv  takin'  a  rise  out  o' 
Moyie.  An'  they'll  be  'avin'  a  'ot  time,  mind  you — 
there's  a  orful  rivalry  atween  them." 

"  Let's  go  over,"  Murray  broke  in  eagerly ;  "  let 
us  go  on  over  and  watch  them."  Two  of  the  three 
started ;  but  the  Doctor  hesitated.    "  Do  you  think,' 


a. 


The   ROARfN'    GAME  281 

he  began—"  do  you  think  I  ought  to  ?  Won't  it 
be  considered— inconsistent,"  he  enquired  nervously, 
"just  after  coming  out  of  the  pulpit?" 

Murray  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  "  Come 
on,"  he  said—"  if  religion  can't  stand  that  much,  I 
wouldn't  preach  it ; "  and  the  Doctor  allowed  himself 
to  be  persuaded. 

The  atmosphere  was  electric  when  they  entered 
the  rink.  Scots,  or  descendants  of  Scots,  most  of 
them  seemed  to  be,  the  national  tam-o'-shanter  on 
many  a  brow  and  the  Scottish  dialect  sounding  now 
and  then  above  the  din.  Grim  determination  was 
written  on  the  face  of  every  curler ;  solemn  silence 
alternated  with  terrific  yells ;  party  zeal  was  evident 
in  the  strained  tension  of  the  seventy  or  eighty  spec- 
tators who  surveyed  the  battle  royal  between  the 
opposing  teams. 

The  ice  was  capital— for  the  floor  was  a  wooden 
one  and  twenty-four  hours'  frost  had  been  quite 
enough— and  the  blood  was  tingling  in  Murray's 
veins  as  he  watched  the  recurring  tests  of  skill.  For 
nearly  an  hour  he  stood,  passing  from  end  to  end 
with  the  traihng  throng  while  the  tide  of  battle  ebbed 
and  flowed  as  the  roaring  pame  went  on.  Nearer 
and  nearer  drew  the  contest  to  its  close— and,  alas ! 
Moyie  was  steadily  making  good  her  lead. 
Once,  in  his  eagerness,  Murray  stepped  down  from 


282    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
the  boards  on  to  tlje  ice -a  Rockcliflc  man  was  run- 
ning  a  narrow  port.     And  suddenly,  with  a  flash  of 
recognition,  he  beheld  his  friend  of  so  short  a  time 
before-none  other  than  the  very  Jake  of  the  lumber 
camp  with  whom  he  had  had  the  experience  forever 
to  be  cherished  as  a  pledge  between  his  heart  and 
heaven.     He  started,  intending   to  speak   to   him; 
then  quickly  refrained,  fearful  lest  he  might  disturb 
the  concentration  so  necessary  to  success.     He  was 
glad  to  find  Jake  thus  employed_no  better  safeguard, 
he  reflected,  for  a  fellow  in  the  midst  of  the  life  strug- 
gle Jake  had  so  earnestly  begun.    And  he  heard 
enough,  from  casual  remarks  about  him,  to  learn  that 
this  new  pilgrim  on  the  upward  way  wis  reckoned 
one  of  the  strong  men  of  the  RockdiflTe  team,  hur- 
riedly summoned  for  the  great  encounter,  h.s  skill 
attested  in  many  a  game  of  yore. 

The  last  "end"  was  about  to  be  played—and 
Rockclifte  was  still  four  shots  down.  The  tension 
was  tremendous.  Before  the  final  struggle,  Murray 
noticed  the  Rockclifie  skip-Kelly  by  name,  the  pro- 
prietor of  one  of  the  most  ill-odoured  saloons  about 
the  town-summon  his  men  aside  to  a  corner  of  the 
rink  near  where  he  happened  to  be  standing. 

"  It's  do  or  die  now.  boys."  Kelly  remarked,  his 
face  hot  with  excitement-',  and  we  can't  afford  to 
let  those 's  from  Moyie  beat  us.    The  honour 


^^i 


.tV./r 


t.\*S 


The   ROARIN'    GA     E 


2%y 


of  the  town's  at  stake,  mind  ye  -they  beat  us  this 
same  game  last  winter." 

"  We'll  mop  up  the  ice  with  them,"  avowed  one  of 
the  players,  th<  lead    "  let's  go  on." 

••  Wait  a  minute,"  Kelly  interrupted.  ••  Here,  take 
a  snifter  o'  this,"  as  he  drew  a  flask  from  his  pocket. 
"  I  keep  this  for  a  tight  place— got  to  keep  our  cour- 
age up,  you  know— we've  got  to  make  five  to  win, 
an'  this  is  the  thing'Ii  stifiTen  up  our  nerve.  Here, 
Charlie,  quick— they're  waiting." 

Charlie  responded  cheerfully  enough.  "Here's 
success !"  as  he  took  a  deep,  gurgling  draught,  the 
flask  showing  the  wound  as  he  passed  it  back. 

"  Stick  it  into  you,  Sandy."  as  Kelly  handed  it  to 
his  second  player. 

Sandy  took  it  with  an  alacrity  worthy  of  his 
name.  "  Look  out  below !  "  was  all  he  said  as  he 
submitted  a  generous  portion  to  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation. 

"  Here,  Jake— there's  just  enough  for  you  an'  me. 
You  first,  J.      —toss  it  off." 

Jake  reiu.cd~he  wouldn=t  take  anythinj^.  thank 
you. 

Kelly  stared  at  him.  "  The  deuce  you  won't ! "  he 
exclaimed  a«5  soon  as  his  surprise  permitted ;  "  is  this 
a  gag  you're  trying  to  work  off  on  us  ?— go  on  quick, 
the  way  you  alway    did,  an'  no  foolishness." 


I       r   l;. 


II 


It 


384    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Jake  stiU  persisted.  But  he  was  pale-and  the 
iigns  of  conflict  were  on  his  face. 

Kelly's  wrath  was  rising.  Murray  drrw  nearer- 
most  of  the  men  in  the  rink  wc.  e  moving  towards 
them  by  this  time. 

Poor  Jake  fought  as  bravely  as  he  could,  but  with 
every  refusal  Kelly's  anger  deepened.  Finally,  after 
considerable  interchange  of  speech,  losing  control  of 
h.n>self.  he  flashed  his  right  arm  round  Jake,  holding 
both  of  Jake's,  and  with  the  other  clapped  the  flask 
close  against  the  quivering  lips.  «  Drink,  I  tell  you 
-you  ve  taught  many  a  fellow  how."  the  words  hiss- 
ing  m  his  wrath. 

But  in  the  twinkHng  of  an  eye  a  grip  of  iron 
clutched  Kelly's  wrist,  tore  the  arm  loose  from  Jake 
and  wrenched  it  with  a  strength  that  brought  a  howl 
of  pain.  The  liquor  trickled  from  the  inverted  bot- 
tle and  spattered  about  the  boards  as  Kelly's  left  arm 
wa-ed  wildly  in  vain  resistance. 

Murray's  teeth  were  set.  and  ius  eyes  had  the 
strange  fire  of  something  like  madness  in  them  that 
so  often  marks  the  Highland  temperament  when  it  is 
roused  like  this.  The  look  fixed  on  Kelly  ^vas  of  fire 
"Jake's  a  friend  of  mine."  came  from  the  white 
I«ps  ma  voice  fep  Uly  low-- do  you  want  any 
more  ?  "  ' 

Kelly  quailed  before  the  flame.     Then,  rallying,  he 


I 


■1 


'.**i«  ~'iSr^ 


.  -!■'?:">„»: 


The   ROARIN'    GAME 


a85 


spluttered  a  few  defiant  words,  moving  itormily 
about.  But  it  was  noticeable  that  his  movement  was 
away  from  whcr^  Murray  stood,  panting  a  I  ttlc  as  if 
some  inward  pain  possessed  him. 

One  or  two  of  the  Rock  m  team,  and  a  few  of 
the  spectators,  had  made  as  if  to  interfere  when  tlie 
fray  began,  but  by  far  the  prevailing  sentiment  was 
in  sympathy  with  Mur.ay,  and  the  scene  was  watched 
in  silence.  The  "^neral  feeling  now  was  that  the 
game  should  r.ocrc  at  once,  and  the  last  exciting 
end  be  played. 

"  Come  on,  Kelly,  let  the  matter  drop,"  was  the 
general  advice.  •«  Cameron's  waiting  for  you— come 
on  and  give  m  his  medicine."  Cameron  was  the 
skip  of  the  Moyie  rink. 

But  something  seemed  to  ail  Kelly  as  he  sulked 
moodily,  leaning  against  the  row  of  lock-rs.  A  min- 
ute or  two  later,  the  throng  growing  ,atient  and 
insistent,  he  stepped  out  before  them,  h.3  right  wrist 
in  his  left  hand. 

"  I  can't."  he  began  wrathily,  glowering  in  the 

direction  of  Murray ;  "  that  there has  queered 

the  game— he  twisted  my  wrist  till  he  nearly  broke 
it.  I  can't  play,"  he  repeated,  a  wail  of  rage  in  the 
voice;  "SO  Moyie's  got  us  beat— we'll  have  to  de- 
fault now.  an'  it's  all  along  o'  him,"  as  he  moved 
away  still  holding  the  useless  wrist. 


286  The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTEN^Y 
This  put  a  different  face  on  matters-and  the  tide 
began  to  turn  against  Murray.  Here  and  there  low 
murmurings  could  be  heard  among  the  men,  one  or 
t^vo  josthng  him  rudely  as  they  passed,  and  finally  an 
angry  face  leered  into  his  and  an  angry  voice  ac- 
costed  him. 

"Say,  stranger."  came  in  an  ugly  tone,  "your 
blame  freshness  has  cost  us  this  game-youVe  put 
our  sk.p  out  of  business.  What  you  got  to  say  to 
that,  eh?  '  coming  closer,  a  little  menacingly,  as  he 
spoke. 

Murray  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "  Can't 
help  ,t."  he  answered  carelessly ;  "  it  needed  doing- 
and  you  know  you  can't  have  an  omelette  without 
breaking  eggs.  Besides,  he's  no  use,"  he  added  in- 
differently, as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  What  ?  "  one  or  two  cried  in  amazement,  ••  what's 
that  you  say  ?  " 

"I  say  he's  no  good,"  Murray  returned  stoutly. 
"  He  can't  skip  a  game-and  win.  that  is.     I've  been 
watching  him.     Why.  you  saw  him,  yourself,  order 
a  stone  swept,  on  the  eleventh  end,  when  there  was 
plenty  m  it-and  it  wicked  out  his  own  shot,  and 
the  enemy  lay  three.     And  he  insisted  on  guarding 
a  port  less  than  eighteen  inches  wide-and  opened 
the  whole  thing  up.     Besides,  he  hogged  one  of  his 
own  stones  when  he  was  asked  for  a  draw  to  the 


The   ROARIN'    GAME  287 

tee."  he  added  half  contemptuously;  -small  loss  if 
you  ask  me." 

••  You  seem  to  know  a  deuce  of  a  lot  about  the 
game-on  paper."  retorted  the  other;  "say  boys" 
turning  to  the  men  around  him.  "  we've  got  a  whale 
of  a  curler  here -tankard  skip,  at  the  very  least" 
sneering  disdainfully  as  the  laughter  arose. 

"That's  what  I  am."  Murray  answered  calmly 

"at  least,  that's  what  I  zvas~-dov,'n  at  Queen's-we 

were  runners   up  for  the  Eastern  Ontario  cup  two 

years  m  succession ;  look  up  the  Annual,  if  you  like  " 

"Perhaps    you'l'    skip   this   last   end   yourself?" 

jeered  one  of  the  men. 

"  I  call  your  bluff."  quoth  Murray-"  V\\  skip  jt  " 
This  was  followed  by  a  yell,  half  of  derision,  half 
of  admiration.  Being  four  shots  down,  they  fancied 
they  had  but  little  to  lose-and  the  chastening  would 
do  this  stranger  good.  Several  voices  loudly  ap- 
proved  the  suggestion.  Approval  swiftly  deepened 
into  general  demand. 

"Ask  the  opposing  skip  if  he's  agreeable."  Murray 
sa.d  over  his  shoulder  as  he  moved  down  towards 
the  ,ce.  discarding  his  overcoat  as  he  went-"  can't 
be  done  otherwise." 

Cameron,  and  all  :he  Moyie  men.  were  cordially 
willmg;  they.  too.  were  catching  the  thrill  of  the 
Situation. 


a88    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  Where's  your  secretary  ?  "  Murray  asked,  turning 
to  a  responsible-looking  man. 

"  Here  he  is,"  was  the  reply ;  ««  what  do  you  want 
him  for  ?  " 

For  answer  Murray  moved  over  to  where  Mr. 
Hawkins  stood,  white  with  suppressed  excitement. 

"  Say,"  he  began  in  a  low  voice,  "  could  you  lend 
me  ten  dollars  ?  I  suppose  that's  the  fee  to  join  the 
club— and  I  really  haven't  got  it.  Then  they  can 
never  contest  the  result,  you  see." 

The  loyal  'Enry  saw  all  right— and  was  delighted 
to  respond.  "I'll  join  too,"  he  whispered  as  he 
transferred  the  bill,  "  if  it  will  'elp  any— we've  got  to 
give  it  to  'em  'ot  an'  'eavy,  mind  you." 

"  Won't  be  necessary— the  whole  thing  depends 
on  this  end,"  Murray  answered,  nodding  towards  the 
ice.  "  It's  do  or  die,  as  Kelly  said,"  moving  over  to 
the  secretary  with  his  deposit. 

All  eyes  were  fastened  on  this  likely  looking  form 
that  had  so  suddenly  entered  the  lists.  Several 
ofifered  him  their  stones,  even  lifting  them  down  on 
to  the  ice.  "  I  want  a  forty-two  pound  pair,"  Murray 
said  as  he  stooped  over  to  try  the  weight;  "here, 
these  suit  me  exactly— you  don't  object  to  my  hav- 
ing a  trial  shot  or  two,  do  you?"  addressing  the 
Moyie  skip. 
Cameron  was  willing  enough.    Selecting  a  broom, 


••,»-j>-:j: 


The   ROARIN'    GAME 


289 


Murray  pushed  his  stones  down  to  the  farther  end  of 
the  rink,  preparatory  to  playing  them  to  the  other 
tee.  Calhng  to  Kelly's  vice-skip  to  give  him  the 
••  borrow."  he  played ;  his  stone,  when  its  course  was 
run.  lay  about  eight  feet  short  of  the  desired  spot 

"  Now  try  it  again,"  called  his  vice-"  I'll  give  you 
the  out  turn  this  time." 

"No."  Murray  called  back;  "  let  me  raise  my  first 
stone  to  the  tee." 

The  vice  placed  his  broom  according  to  his  new 
skip's  request.  And  with  marvellous  accuracy  the 
second  stone  came  down  the  ice.  its  gentle  impact 
promoting  the  first  almost  exactly  the  desired  dis- 
tance ;  for  when  it  ceased  to  curl  the  outer  edge  of 
It  was  actually  overhanging  the  tee. 

A  great  shout  went  up.  and  expectation  rose  to 
the  highest  pitch.  Even  Kelly  was  caught  into  the 
ta,l  end  of  the  cheer,  none  quicker  than  he  to  recog- 
nize that  this  was  no  novice  at  the  game 

Murray  walked  slowly  back  to  the  end  from  which 
he  had  delivered  his  stones,  no  sign  of  satisfaction 
visible-and  the  final  tug  of  war  began.  As  has 
been  said,  the  RockclifTe  team  was  four  shots  down 
and  this  was  the  last  end-they  must  get  four  to  tie 
five  to  win. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  desperateness  of  the  situation  • 
or  It  may  have  been  the  sudden  confidence  with 


290  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
which  Murray  had  inspired  them-but,  in  any  case, 
his  men  gave  hini  glorious  support  in  that  final 
struggle.  With  the  result  that  by  the  time  Murray's 
third  man  had  played  his  first  stone,  four  Rockcliffe 
stones,  all  counters,  and  all  reasonably  well  guarded 
were  within  the  rings-but  no  one  of  them  actually 
on  the  tee. 

Cameron,  the  Moyie  skip,  held  long  consultation 
with  h,s  third  man.  Then  he  gave  him  a  shot  of 
great  difficulty,  a  dead  draw  to  the  •<  button  "-es- 
pecially hard  because  of  an  outlying  guard  that  made 
the  achievement  one  of  the  rarest.  But.  to  the  dismay 
of  all  Rockcliffe,  Cameron's  vice,  by  a  beautiful  draw, 
came  in  for  shot,  lying  full  upon  the  tee. 

•■  I'll  follow  it— I'll  draw  up  against  him,"  called 
Murray's  vice,  sweeping  off  his  stone,  the  last  one 
left  to  him. 

"  No  good,"  shouted  Murray  ;  "  you  might  draw 
to  it— but  you  couldn't  draw  with  force  enough  to 
move  it  out.  Take  off  that  guard,"  pointing  to  the 
outlying  stone. 

The  man  did  his  best;  sent  the  guard  kiting,  but 
alas  !  lay  himself  in  absolutely  the  same  position. 
He  had  simply  replaced  the  guard.  Another  stone, 
also  guarding,  lay  about  thirteen  inches  to  the  left. 
Deep  disappointment  clouded  the  faces  of  the  Rock- 
cliffe team— it  looked  hopeless  now. 


".'-.,-.^   '-'v-'i-,.-      ■''.!:»>■'■    ''Jmf'--r'--^     1  iif ■'.■<■  ■•;"' 


The   ROARIN-    GAME  391 

"  That'll  give  the  sucker  a  run  for  his  money," 

some  of  the  wrathful  murmured ;  '•  we'll  see  if  he's 

as   good   at  this   as  he's  at  shuttin'  off  a  fellows 

drink." 

"  What  can  you  expect  from  an  ox  driver  ?"  an- 
other added-- he  teams  for  old  Hawkins,  you 
know." 

But  for  the  most  part  dead  silence  reigned  as  Cam- 
eron went  down  the  ice  to  play  his  first  stone.  He  tried 
for  an  additional  guard,  which  was  hardly  necessary, 
played  with  great  caution,  the  ice  being  keen-and 
as  a  result  failed,  by  a  couple  of  inches,  to  cross  the 
hog  line.     His  stone  was  pushed  off  the  ice. 

"Showed  your  savvy,"  his  vice  shouted  to  him; 
the  fMng's  as  safe  already  as  you  want  it-and  you' 
might  only  have  opened  it  up." 

"  I'll  take  off  that  guard  with  my  first,"  Murray 
said  to  his  vice-skip  as  they  leaned  over  and  surveyed 
the  end;  "if  I  get  that  outer  guard  off.  we  can  get 
at  the  shot." 

"  Why  don't  you  draw  to  their  winner?  "  replied 
the  other. 

"  I  told  you  it  was  no  use."  Murray  answered  a 
trifle  sharply ;  "  I  „ti^hi  draw  around  the  guard  and 
touch  it— one  chance  in  a  hundred— but,  even  so,  I 
couldn't  draw  with  speed  enough  to  raise  it  mo'rc 
than  three  or  four  inches.     I  might  lie  shot— but 


« 


292    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

that's  no  good— we  want  five  to  win.  We  have  four 
seconds  there,"  he  muttered,  looking  covetously  at 
the  Rockcliffe  stones  around  the  tee ;  "  so  I'll  have  to 
open  the  thing  up.  Then,  if  I  can  get  that  owl," 
pointing  to  his  opponent's  winner, "  and  lie  myself 
— we'll  have  the  game." 

"Why  don't  you  run  that  port?  "his  vice  sug- 
gested, pointing  to  the  narrow  opening  between  the 
two  guard  stones,  about  a  foot  and  a  quarter  in  width. 
"  Only  get  that  once  in  a  dog's  age,"  Murray  re- 
sponded—- that's  a  last  resort.  No,  I'll  open  it  up— 
with  my  first,  anyway." 

He  played.  And  the  stone,  deadly  accurate, 
caught  the  outer  guard  on  the  edge,  hurling  it 
aga.nst  the  boards  at  the  side.  His  own  stone, 
skilfully  enough,  also  flew  off  at  a  tangent.  Now 
the  enemy's  winner  lay  three-quarters  exposed. 

But  the  Moyie  skip  had  no  intention  of  leaving  it 
thus  unprotected.  With  his  second  stone  he  pro- 
posed to  replace  the  guard  Murray  had  removed. 
And  it  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he  had  accom- 
plished it;  but,  just  when  his  rock  was  half-way 
down  i;ie  ice,  a  mingled  mass  of  aow  and  dust  fell 
from  the  roof  of  the  rink,  so  immediately  before  it 
that  even  the  nimble  sweepers  failed  to  get  it  out  of 
the  way  before  the  stone,  catching  the  obstruction, 
was  brought  to  a  standstill. 


The   ROARIN'    GAME  293 

A  shout  went  up  from  two  or  three  of  the  Rock- 
cliffe  rooters,  checked  in  a  moment. 

"  Hard  luck,  Cameron ! "  Murray's  vice  called  from 
the  other  end ;  "  you  were  dead  on,  if  that  hadn't 
happened  you." 

Cameron  turned  disappointedly  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  the  further  end. 

But  Murray,  instead  of  taking  his  turn,  was  now 
walking  down  the  ice.  He  motioned  his  heutenant 
aside.  "Cameron  shall  play  that  over  again,"  he 
said  quietly. 

"  The  deuce  he  will,"  responded  the  other,  bridling 
up ;  "  the  rules  say " 

"  I  don't  care  what  the  rules  say,"  Murray  retorted ; 
"  Cameror'll  play  his  stone  over  again— it  wasn't  his 
fault." 

The  vice  still  piotested.  Finally:  "  Anyhow,  I'm 
skipping  now,"  he  said  rather  testily"  when  you're 
playing,  I'm  the  skip.     You  know  that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  Murray  returned  quietly; 
"  and  if  Cameron  doesn't  phy  that  over  again— I'm 
through,"  looking  fixedly  at  the  other.  "  So  take 
your  choice." 

The  man  yielded  in  a  moment,  catching  the  look 
in  Murray's  eye.  Then  the  latter  walked  back  to 
where  Cameron  was  still  standing,  and  a  low  discus- 
sion followed,  the  Moyie  man  evidently  reluctant. 


MUPwS" 


1);  f 
J 


394    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

But  a  minute  or  two  later  he  turned,  motioned  them 
to  throw  back  his  stone,  md  took  his  place  at  the 
hack,  waiting  for  the  cheer  to  subside. 

Once  again  his  stcne  left  his  hand  as  accurately  as 
before.  And  this  time  it  curled  to  the  very  spot  and 
lay  almost  precisely  where  the  previous  guard  had 
been.  The  blockade  seemed  perfect,  less  than  four- 
teen inches  of  an  opening  between  the  two  stones, 
the  winning  shot  barely  visible  beyond.  The  Moyie 
men  howled  like  mad  and  freely  declared  themselves 
five  shots  up. 

Murray  and  his  vice-skip  met  at  the  guards.  Both 
were  critically  inspecting  the  port- -was  it  possible  to 
come  through  and  take  out  the  winner  ? 

"  Too  narrow,"  the  vice  pronounced  after  a  long 
scrutiny—"  that  port's  only  about  two  inches  more 
than  the  width  of  your  stone,  two  and  a  half  at  the 
best.  You'll  have  to  draw— might  move  the  winner 
enough  to  lie  shot  yourself  anyway.  It's  all  that's 
left  you,"  as  he  started  back,  preparatory  to  giving 
the  broom. 

"  What's  the  use  of  that  ?  "  Murray  called  after  him 
just  a  trifle  warmly;  "suppose  I  did  draw  to  it,  and 
moved  it  enough  to  give  us  shot,  that's  no  good  to 
us— we  need  five  to  win— and  the  five  are  there,  if  I 
can  get  a  run  at  their  shot,  fm  going  to  run  that 
port!"  as  he  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  hack. 


li 


,  f  , 


The   ROARIN'    GAME 


295 


He  swept  the  ice  clean  before  him  as  he  went— for 
this  was  a  shot  of  tremendous  import.  Lifting  his 
stone  from  the  ice,  he  cleaned  it  carefully,  tightened 
the  handle  again,  the  \  poised  himself  to  play. 

"Too  narrow— can't  be  done,"  shouted  his  vice 
from  the  other  end. 

"  Give  me  the  borrow,"  Murray  shouted  back. 
The  vice,  muttering  to  himself,  placed  his  broom 
broadside  on  tlie  ice. 

"  Give  mc  W\z  edge  of  it,"  Murray  shouted  again. 
The  vice  turned  the  broom  as  directed. 

"  Closer,"  called  Murray,  waving  ho  hand  inward. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  draw  ?  "  came  the  reply. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  their  stone  out— I'll  put  it  to 
the  boards — that  port's  got  to  be  run.  Closer  yet — 
it  won't  draw  two  inches — I'm  coming  at  it." 

He  steadied  himself,  fixed  his  mind  with  terrific 
intensity  on  the  white  objective  in  the  distance,  then 
lifted  his  stone  from  the  ice,  brought  it  well  back  be- 
hind him,  and  hurled  it  from  him  with  giant  strength. 

The  silence  of  death  was  about  the  rink  as  the 
swift-flying  thing  sped  down  the  ice,  ihe  curl  barely 
noticeable.  The  sweepers  stood  and  watched.  Once 
past  the  guards,  once  through  the  port,  it  would  be 
dead  on  the  enemy's  stone — and  the  victory  would 
be  won  I 

Every  man  of  them  held  his  breath  as  the  flying 


t  WW-  I 


396    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTEhlAY 
rock  came  to  the  port.     Every  eye  was  glued  on  it 
-it  was  impossible  to  tell-tlicre  I  yes,  it  was  going 
to  graze  the  guard  to  tlie  left,  and  ruin  everything  ! 
--no.  it  was  still  flying  straight.     Who  knows-there 
IS  a  difference  of  opinion  to  this  day— whether  it 
actually  touched-the  faintest  n-b.  not  enough  to 
turn  it  from  its  coursc--or  whether  it  passed  through 
absolutely  clear  ?     Kelly  himself  said  afterwards  that 
you  could  have  put  a  one  doUar  bill  between  the 
stones  but  no  human  power  could  have  put  a  two- 
and  the  consensus  of  opinion  favours  his  contention 
But.  be  that  as  it  may.  the  stone  flew  through-like 
some  living  thing  that  saw  its  enemy  in  the  distance 
-swept  onward  with  unabated  force,  fell  with  heav- 
enly impact  against  the  Moyie  stone  and  lay  still  as 
death  itself,  driving  the  alien  rock  against  the  end  of 
the  rink  with  a  thud  that  ^vas  never  heard  amid  the 
wild  uproar  that  had  begun  before  Murray's  stone 
was  altogether  through  the  narrow  port. 

The  yell  of  victory,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word 
IS  never  heard  in  its  fullness  except  on  curlers'  ice' 
and  from  the  throats  of  the  victors.  Now  it  ascended 
in  all  its  glory,  caps  in  air.  brooms  aloft  or  hurled 
along  the  ice,  the  rafters  echoing  with  the  terrific 
shout.  The  men  made  a  rush  for  Murray_a  brief 
fifteen  minutes  had  transformed  an  unknown  stranger 
into  a  conquering  hero-and  lifted  him  high  on  their 


I*.  .  -y 


The   ROARIN'    GAME  ag-j 

shoulders,  vainly  protesting  as  they  bore  him  down 
the  .ce.  Kelly,  to  give  hun  his  due.  was  one  of  the 
shouting  throng,  striving  with  the  rest  to  seize 
Murray's  hand  or  thump  h.m  on  the  shoulder  or 
roar  some  plaudit  in  his  ear. 

When  at  last  the  tumult  had  subsided  and  Murray 
was  standing  among  the  still  excited  throng,  a  firry 
faced  Scot,  the  president  of  the  club,  suddenly  raised 
his  hand  and  called  loudly  for  order. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said.  .-  I  just  want  to  speak  a 
word.     As  you  all  know,  we  had  arranged  to  enter- 
tarn   our   visiting  curlers  to  a  little  supper   at  the 
Grosvenor.     Well,  we're  going  up  there  nov^-the 
oysters  are  waiting-and  I  wish  to  suggest  that  ^ve 
ask  the  gentleman,  who  has  done  such  a  glorious 
stunt  for  us  to-night,  to  come  along  and    be  our 
guest  of  honour."  the  rest  lost  in  the  acclaim  that 
greeted  the  suggestion,  one  of  the  most  tumultuous 
voices  being  that  of  Kelly  himself. 

Wherefore,   a   k.v   minutes   later.   Murray   found 
himself  stepping  out  into  the  frosty  night  escorted 
by  Cameron  on  the  one  hand  and  Kelly  on  the  other 
the  victor  quite  the  humblest  looking  of  the  three 

"Can  I  interrupt  you  a  minute  ?"  a  voice  sud- 
denly came  in  the  darkness-..  I  want  a  word  wiv 
Mr.  McLean."  As  he  looked  around,  Murray  saw 
the  faithful  Hawkins  beckoning  eagerly  to  him  •  "  I 


fs^ 


3q8    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

want  a  word  wiv  you— me  an'  the  Doctor  wants  a 
minute  wiv  you,  sir." 

Murray  excused  himself  and  stepped  aside.    The 
Doctor  was  the  first  to  speak. 

••  I  just  wanted  to  renew  my  request.  Mr.  McLean," 
he  began  rapidly-"  I  want  you  to  promise,  now,  that 
you'll  give  us  a  hand  at  the  meetings.     You  must  see, 
sir.  that  you've  taken  the  men  by  storm— you're  their 
hero,  sir—and  your  influence  would  be  tremendous, 
simply  tremendous,  sir.     It  looks  Ukc  an  open  door,"' 
he  added,  fixing  a  very  importunate  gaze  on  Murray. 
"It's  a  call,  sir!  "the  eager  Hawkins  broke  in; 
"it's   a  call   to   the   miniscry,  sir— an'  one   of  the' 
loudest  I  ever  'card.     Oh,  Lor'  bless  me.  sir.  I  was 
like  to  drop  dead,  I  was  that  hanxious,  I  was.     I  was 
a-prayin'  for  you.  sir,  when  that  there  stone  went 
through   that  there  litUe  'olc-an'  when  they  was 
all  a-shoutin',  I  was  a-sayin' '  Glory  'Allelujah  ! '  an' 
a-wonderin'  if  the  Lord  could  'ear  me,  wiv  such  a 
row.     It's  a  call  to  the  ministry,  sir— an'  the  Lordll 
deal  wiv  you  if  it  bean't  'card."  the  little  man's  eyes 
fiashing  in  the  starlight. 

Murray  hesitated.  Cameron  and  Kelly  were  look- 
J-1  restless.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said  hurriedly ;  "  oh, 
thank  you  so  much-and  I'll  think  it  over— and  I'll 
let  you  know,"  as  he  mcved  on  to  where  the  men 
stood  waiting  for  him. 


le 


XX 


THE  ENCORE  THAT  MURRAY  U^ON 

THE  .upper  was  finished,  the  revelry  begun; 
and  the  impromptu  toast  list  was  almost 
finished  when   the  president  of  the  club 


arose. 

"GentlemM,-  he  began,  "I  have  .till   another 
toa,,  ,0  propose.     And  it  is  l„  ,he  health  of  a  man 
»ho  a  few  hour,  ago  „a,  a  comparative  stranger 
amongst  us,  but  whom  we  no.v  consider  one  of  our- 
"Ives      He  has  gripped  us  all  just  about  a,  unex- 
P.c.edly  as  this  sudden  cold  snap  that  gave  h,m  his 
opportun,ty.    But  I'm  sure  I  voice  all  your  hearts 
when  I  say  that  I  hope  hell  be  wi,„  „s  a  long  time 
after  ,t  has  gone.     The  gentleman  W  ,  ,vi„  ,«po„<, 

oth,s  .oast  has  done  more  than  prove  h.msdf  a 

what  '"""-rj"'""^''  "■=  -^  -o-gh  to  beheve 
what  we  re  told,  that  he  was  Tankard  Skip  for  his 

P  rt,  Wh,le  ,vo  all  marvelled  a,  his  wonderful 
"'".  "=/'  ""  "  '"  'h«  ice  to-night,  I'm  sure  we 
admired  even  more  the  sportsmanlike  spirit  of  the 

T"'-  '°:  1  >""'  """  "^^y  -"-ni'.  in  this  particular 
game  ,t  s  the  man  that  makes  the  curler,     I  ask  you 

"19 


300    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
now  to  charge  your  glasses  and  drink  the  health  of 
tlje  victor  of  the  hour.  Mr.  Murray  McLean  " 

Three  cheers  and  a  tiger  greeted  the  erstwhile 
stranger  as  he  rose  to  reply.     His  response  was  brief 
and  modest.     -  I  feel  myself  among  friends."  he  went 
on  after  a  few  preliminaries.  -  for  there  is  no  free- 
masonry in  all  the  world  more  real  and  cordial  than 
that  wh,ch  prevails  among  •  brither  curiers '  wherever 
.ce.s  found.     I'm  glad  we  won  out  on  that  last  end 
--but  I  venture  to  hope  that  n  e  would  have  taken  it 
just  the  same  ,f  we  had  lost.     To  my  mind  that's  the 
s.gn  of  a  good  curler-of  a  true  sport  anywhere-if 
he  can  snatch  victory  out  of  defeat,  or  keep  his  head 
hen  hes  on  top.     There's  no  game  in  the  worid.  I 
thmk.  that  cultivates  restraint  more  than  this  ancient 
sport  of  ours-as  you  know,  even  when  you're  play- 
ing, there  is  quite  as  much  in  what  you  hold  back  as 
m  what  you  put  into,  your  stone.     I  thank  you  all 
for  your  kindness  to  a  man  who  is  considerable  of  a 
stranger  among  you ;  and  I  hope,  if  I  stay  in  Rock- 

',  ''  '°  '^"^"  ^^'"^  J°Hy  good  games  with  you  after 
the  wmter  weather  really  sets  in.  Now  I'm  not 
much  of  a  speaker_so.  with  your  permission  I'll 
throw  my  real  response  into  the  form  of  a  song-a 
good  o  d  Scotch  song,  and  Hielan'  at  that.'  the 
Proposal  greeted  with  boisterous  applause. 

Murray   waited   till   silence  was   restored,  moved 


The  ENCORE  Ihat  MURRAY  WON     30, 
back  a  little  fro.  the  table,  and  presently  launched 
ou         o   Scotland's   great   battle  song,  the  Partial 
mast  rp,        ,ng.ng  dear  and  high  as  his  own  High- 
land heart  was  starred  with  the  k.ndling  words  : 

"  Scots  whahaewi' Wallace  bled 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  often  led 
U'elcome  to  your  gory  bed 
Or  to  victory." 

As  eacl>ver«  found  its  dose  a  salvo  of  chee,, 
1.™     And  when  the  las.  great  line  ..  Let  „3  do  or 

ardonr.:.  '"  ""'•  "'  ''''  ^^'^  ""»  '- 

«  s  del  'Z  "™'  '  "°™  "'  '"-'^  -d 

cneers  demanded  an  encore. 

But  Murray  had  resumed  his  seat,  shaking  his  head 
»n  denial  as  the  din  went  on.     But  a  sudH  , 

cam*,  f..  k-  .  ^ut  a  sudden  resolve 

can,e  to  h,m-and  a  strange  seriousness  marked  his 
m.en  as  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

2"  be  eard,  •■  for  this  ™ark  of  your  appreciation 
And  w,shto™,ceanan„ou„cen,ent.  lJ,.espond 
to  your  land  encore-but  it  shall  be  to-n,orrow  „ig,„ 
-at  the  service  in  the  Presbyterian  Church.     I  will 

-pond  th..,e  repeated.  ..and,  shall  expect  yo 
^'  to  be  there  to  hear  me,"  the  words  falling  an,id 
dense  soilness  on  the  ears  of  the  n,yst.fied  asslb,„ 


IM 


i'-i 


XXI 

NOT  A    CALL  — BUT  A    'OLLER" 


T  HIE.  freshet,  so  earnestly  desired  by  Dr.  Sey- 
mour, came  at  last.  So  far  as  the  size  of 
the  audience  was  concerned,  at  least,  the 
revival  services  Had  undergone  revival.  For  when 
Murray,  accompanied  by  the  rejoicing  Hawkins,  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  vestry  door  the  following  evening 
and  enquired  for  the  Reverend  Dr.  Seymour,  he  found 
that  worthy  in  high  delight  over  the  prospect  of  a 
record   crowd.     "They've   been  coming  in  by  the 

score,"  he  intimated,  "  for  the  last  twenty  minutes 

and  the  beadle  says ,  the  place  is  nearly  full  already. 
You've  got  the  chance  of  your  life,  McLean— they're 
on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation.  What  are  you  going 
to  sing  ?  " 

"  I  think  I'll  take  the '  Ninety  and  Nine,'  "  answered 
Mir  ray. 

"  Glory  'Allelujah  ! "  broke  in  the  fervent  Hawkins. 

Dr.  Seymour  frowned  perceptibly.  "  Pretty 
Moody  and  Sankeyish,  isn't  it?"  he  said  after  a 
pause.  "  Couldn't  you  take  something  a  little— a 
little  statelier  than  that,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

302 


*'NOT  a    CALL-BUT 


a 


OLLER'    303 
Murray  looked  rather  agitated.     "  I  thought  per- 
haps that  other  might— might  do  some  good,  sir,"  he 
answered  mildly. 

"  But  we  must  endeavour,"  the  Doctor  replied  a 
little  testily,  "  we  must  endeavour  to  preserve  the 
dignity  of  the  service,  you  know.  I've  been  makin^^ 
that  my  aim  right  along— I've  aimed  at  tliat  all 
through  my  ministry— aiul  I  hope  I've  succeeded." 

"I  'ope  so,"  broke  in  the  hitherto  unnoticed 
Hawkins.  "  An'  I'm  afeared  you  'ave,  sir— it's  hawful 
easy  to  be  dignified,  sir— there  ain't  nobody  as  dignified 
as  a  hundertaker  at  a  funeral,"  fixing  his  gaze  on  the 
silken  gown  the  Doctor  was  carefully  adjusting  to  his 
portly  form. 

"  Eh  ?  what's  that  ?  "  came  rather  sharply  from  the 
latter. 

"  Of  course  you're  in  charge.  Doctor,"  Murray  in- 
terjected, thinking  it  wise  to  end  th-  dialogue ;  "  but 
all  the  same,  I'd  like  to  sing  that  hymn  I  mentioned 
— if  you  don't  mind,  sir." 

The  mhiister  made  no  reply  as  he  led  the  way  to 
the  door  opening  into  the  church  ;  but  the  atmosphere 
was  such  as  rather  tempered  Murray's  ardour  in  this 
critical  hour  of  his  life.  However,  he  almost  forgot 
it  all  as  he  took  a  seat  to  the  side  of  the  pulpit  and 
looked  over  the  gathered  throng. 

For  it  was  such  as  might  have  inspired  any  man, 


304    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

much  more  one  whose  heart  had  been  touched  with 
an  ambition  so  high  as  that  which  animated  this 
youthful  volunteer.  The  church  was  full,  every  pew 
with  its  complete  quota— and  the  vast  majority  were 
men.  Murray's  pulse  quickened  as  he  noticed  his 
fellow  curlers  of  the  day  before  seated  in  a  group  by 
themselves— and  the  valiant  Kelly  was  in  their  midst. 
These  were  the  men  who  had  spread  the  tidings  that 
Murray  was  to  sing  that  evening  ;  and  they  had  used 
to  the  full  the  stirring  episodes  of  the  night  before— 
this  crowded  audience  was  the  result. 

The  sermon  was  over— and  the  Reverend  Armi- 
tage,  resolved  to  rise  to  the  occasion,  had  exhausted 
the  resources  of  his  eloquence  and  his  scholarship. 
The  audience  had  listened  with  a  tepid  admiration 
which  showed  their  estimate  of  this  performance  as  a 
mere  preliminary  to  the  real  feature  of  the  evening. 

When  the  Doctor  at  kngth  announced  the  solo 

"  from  our  young  friend  who  has  kindly  consented 

to  assist  in  the  meetings,"  a  hush  of  expectation  fell 

upon   the  waiting  crowd.     For  a  moment  or  two 

Murray  looked  silently  into   the   faces  before  him, 

gathering   inspiration   for  the   unaccustomed   duty. 

And  as  he  looked,  the  sensation  of  eager  longing  for 

the  souls  of  men.  of  wistful  eagerness  to  help  them. 

of  new-born  compassion  for  all  their  loneliness  and 

need,  seemed  to  possess  his  heart ;  even  as,  a  {^y^ 


"NOT  a  CALL-BUT  a  OLLER"  305 
minutes  later,  it  found  a  voice  in  the  tenderness  and 
power  with  which  his  song  gripped  the  hearts  before 
him. 

A  httle  timidly  at  first— for  this  was  a  new  and 
wonderful  experience— his  voice  touched  with  the 
slightest  tremor  but   gradually  gaining   confidence 
and  strength  as  he  forgot  all  about  himself  in  the 
exercise  of  his  wonderful  gift,  Murray  poured  forth 
the  melting  words  that  have  enthralled  their  thou- 
sands and  their  tens  of  thousands.     And  as  he  came 
near  its  close  his  own  heart  seemed  to  glory  in  the 
mighty  hymn  that  Immortality  had  snatched  so  sud- 
denly into  her  jealous  keeping  when  first  that  hymn 
was  born. 

His  face  was  aglow,  radiant  with  love  and  plead- 
ing, as  the  breathless  throng  listened  to  the  trium- 
phant ending : 

"And  the  angels  echoed  aronnd  the  throne 
RejJce  !  for  the  Lord  brings  back  His  own." 

The  very  silence,  as  he  finished,  seemed  to  be  an 
appeal.  Indeed,  he  forcr^^  that  he  had  been  singing 
at  all;  forgot  everything  except  the  spirit  and  the 
mission  of  the  great  message  he  had  given.  And 
unmindful  of  the  minister  before  him,  heedless  of 
irregularity  and  all  else  beside,  his  own  voice  broke 
the  hush  as  it  went  on  in  tender  and  passionate  utter- 


3o6    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENA  Y 

ance.  For  he  saw  before  him  the  faces  of  men— men 
hlce  himself— stragglers  against  the  same  head  winds, 
warriors  in  the  same  grim  battle,  resisting  the  same 
passions,  capable  of  the  same  blessed  victory.  And 
they  were  looking  up  to  him.  and  the  stillness  was 
as  deep  when  he  began  to  speak  as  when  he  had 
been  singing— wherefore  he  could  not  help  but  plead 
•with  them,  and  beseech  them  to  be  reconciled  to 
God. 

Not  more  than  ten  or  twelve  minutes  did  he  speak 
—but  It  was  long  enough  for  him  to  test  the  luxury 
of  Influence,  spiritual  Influence,  of  power  with  the 
souls  of  his  fellow  men. 

And  then,  still  oblivious  to  rule  or  custom,  just  as 
his  impassioned  appeal  was  over,  he  leaned  far  for- 
ward towards  the  men,  his  hands  outstretched  in  the 
earnestness  of  his  entreaty. 

"  Is  there  any  one,"  he  pleaded,  "  any  one  here 
who  will  take  his  stand  to-night  ?  I  pause  for  your 
reply.  If  you  will— if  any  man  will— let  him  show 
his  colours  now  and  come  out  boldly  for  his  Master 
and  his  King.  Let  him  come  forward  to  me— it  will 
be  late  before  I  will  give  him  up  or  cease  to  show 
him  the  way_or  let  him  even  take  his  stand  by 
rising  to  his  feet.  Come  now,  come- make  the 
great  decision  now  !  " 

With  which  one  did  arise.     But  alas!  it  was  the 


c.i;.'} 


,,%y  *r>  ::. 


-NOT  a  CALL-BUT  a  'OLLER"  307 
minister  beside  him,  none  other  than  the  Reverend 
Annitage  himself.  Murray's  face  was  blanched  and 
white  as  he  heard  his  words. 

••  Excuse  mc,"  the  Doctor  began  in  an  icy  voice; 
"  but  I  feel  that  I   must  protest.     I  appreciate  the 
spirit  that  has  prompted  our  young  brother—but  I 
am  responsible  for  the  conduct  of  these  meetings. 
And  this  is  entirely  out  of  order—and,  what  is  more, 
out  of  all  harmony  with  the  spirit  that  has  marked 
these  meetings  from  the  beginning.     I  must  ask  you, 
Mr.  McLean,  to  withdraw  your  invitation— it  is  out 
of  all   accord  with    Presbyterirn    usage-all  things 
must  be  done  decently  and  in  order,"  moving  to  the 
desk  and  picking  up  the  hymn-book  that  lay  upon  it. 
Murray  was  completely  overwhelmed  by  this  bolt 
from  the  blue.     What  to  say,  or  whether  to  say  any- 
thing, he  knew  not.     But  the  momentary  hesitation 
relieved  him  of  the  necessity  of  deciding. 

A  slight  muttering  could  be  heard  in  the  central 
group  of  men.  Then  suddenly,  leaping  to  his  feet, 
arose  one  of  the  burliest  of  them.  His  face  was  dark 
and  lowering. 

"  I  dunno'  who's  runnin'  this  show,  parson,"  he 
began  bluffly,  "  but  I  do  know  this  ain't  a  square 
deal.  This  here's  a  free  country— an'  I  reckon  if 
one  fellow  wants  to  invite  another  to  stan'  up, 
an'  he   wants  to  climb,  you  ain't  got  no  power  to' 


3o8    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

stop  him,  boss.  An'  all  you  fellows,"  turning  now 
to  the  men, "  all  you  fellows  that  sides  with  the 
young  gaffer  there,  jes'  stan'  up— like  he  axed  us." 

There  was  a  sudden  movement ;  it  seemed  well- 
nigh  universal— for  the  men  rose,  almost  in  a  body, 
to  their  feet. 

"  There,  parson,"  the  spoke-man  delivered  himself 
as  he  looked  complacently  round  on  the  men. 
"  you  got  your  answer,  see  ?  Mebbe  we  haven't 
all  jes"  got  what  you  might  say  is  a  dose  o'  re- 
ligion—a change  o'  heart,  as  they  call  it— but  we 
won't  Stan'  for  any  one  as  tye-rannical  as  the  likes 
o'  you,  see  ?  Now  we're  goin'  out— I  reckon— an' 
you  can  run  your  own  show,  parson— the  women'Il 
be  left.  But  the  men's  all  votin'  like  you  axed 
them,  guv'nor,"  as  he  nodded  confidentially  in  the 
direction  of  Murray,  aghast  and  horrified  where  he 
stood. 

Wherewith,  fumbling  beneath  the  seat  for  his 
hat,  the  burly  champion  of  human  liberty  led  the 
way  to  the  door.  And  almost  every  man  of  the 
company  followed  him  out  into  the  dark. 

The  meeting  broke  up  in  disorder,  despite  the 
efforts  of  the  minister  to  prevent  it.  Murray  had 
already  made  his  way  to  the  vestry ;  whence,  weary 
and  sick  at  heart,  he  speedily  turned  his  steps 
towards    home.      Dr.   Seymour,   a   faint   miscrivincr 


-NOT  a  CALL-BU'T  a  'OLLER"  309 
seizing  him,  hurried  to  the  room,  but  Murray  had 
already  gone.  He  even  went  to  the  door  and  called 
him  once  or  twice ;  but  no  answer  came,  whereat, 
sighing  in  heaviness  of  heart,  he  gave  up  the  quest.  ' 

Fully  an  hour  and  a  half  later  he  and  Mr. 
Henry  Hawkins  were  still  earnestly  discussing  the 
situation,  both  rather  despondent,  it  must  be  said, 
when  a  sudden  knock  came  to  the  door. 

"That'll  be  the  Doctor,  comin'  to  hapologize," 
surmised  Hawkins  as  he  hurried  to  answer  the 
summons. 

But  he  was  mistaken.  For  instead,  three  men 
were  there,  asking  for  Mr.  McLean.  Readily  ad- 
mitted, they  sat  down  opposite  the  wondering 
Murray. 

"  We've  had  a  meetin'-representin'  nearly  all 
the  men  in  town,"  the  leader  of  the  delegation 
began  abruptly,  "an'  a  good  few  o'  the  lumber- 
jacks from  the  adjoinin'  camps.  An'  they  sent 
us  three  to  tell  you  how  howlin'  mad  we  all  are 
about  that  there  raw  deal  you  got  to-night.  Most 
o'  the  men  hadn't  been  in  church  for  ycars—'cept 
at  a  funeral,  of  course— an'  they  were  all  terrible 
pleased,  sir,  with  that  little  sermon  you  gave  us. 
Weren't  they,  Tom?" 

"  Certain    sure ;    clean    carried    away,"  endorsed 
Tom— "an'  it  done  'em   a  heap  o'  good  into  the 


M.     . 


B^  lit 


ijjl 


^■f 


?    K. 


310    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

bar£jajn.  Two  fellows  told  me  Jack  Finlan  was  jes' 
goin"  to  get  converted  when  that  there  codfish— that 
there  parson— put  in  his  oar  an'  spiled  evcrythin'. 
Jack  'most  'lows  that  himself— an'  any  one  ar  ;an 
convert  Jack,  or  come  anywheres  near  it,  he's  a 
cracker-jack.  An'  the  boys  thinks  preachin'— an' 
'specially  singin'— of  that  there  brand  you  put  up,  sir, 
would  do  us  all  a  pile  o'  good.  And  they  want 
you  to— you  tell  him,  Dick,"  turning  to  the  spokes- 
man. 

"  They  want  you  to  start  up  a  few  little  meet- 
ings o'  your  own,  likt— for  all  classes  an'  all  sexes," 
Dick  elaborated  from  memory,  "  but  'specially  for 
men — an'  women  to  be  invited,  too,"  he  added  gen- 
erously. "  An'  they've  got  a  meetin'-place  ;  one  o' 
the  men — you  curled  with  him  last  night — he's  No- 
ble Grand  in  the  Odd-Fellows.  An'  we've  got  the 
promise  o'  their  hall— an'  we'll  crowd  it  full  till  you 
have  to  take  the  paper  off  the  wall— an'  you'll  do  a 
power  o'  good,  sir," 

"  Tell  him  about  the  stannin'  up,"  Tom  reminded 
him  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Oh,  yes— I  clean  forgot.  The  men  said  you 
could  have  all  the  stannin'  up  you  wanted.  If  a  man 
can't  net  his  fish  after  he's  hooked  'em  himself— 
without  some  one  in  a  black  nightgown  orderin'  him 
to  let  'em  go— well,  it's  a  fierce  strange  thing,  that's 


l«*i!A.L"i 


i< 


N07   a    CALL  — BUT  a     OLLER"   y\\ 

what  all  the  men  Suid,  sir.  So  we  calc'late  to  stan' 
up  when  you  say  so— you're  the  doctor —an'  to  pjet 
converted  if  we  can ;  we're  tol'aole  sure  o'  Jack 
Finlan  for  a  starter.  An'  we  appinted  a  committee  to 
see  about  gettin'  all  the  mrn  to  stan'  up  that's  got 
the  machinery  for  doin'  it,  an" " 

"  Sort  of  a  stannin'  committ-ee,"  interjected  Tom 
with  a  grin. 

"  An*  every  man  in  town's  sohd  for  you,  sir,"  Dick 
went  on,  treating  the  witticism  with  the  contempt  it 
deserved;  "you  certain  sure  got  the  fellows  by  the 
neck  last  night  at  the  curlin'  rink.  An'  even  Kelly 
— him  as  you  put  it  all  over,  you  mind — Kelly  says 
he'll  give  out  tickets  for  the  meetin's  over  the  bar, 
'cause  you're  a  dead  game  sport.  An'  we  hope  you'll 
start  up  business  right  away,  sir — the  divil's  always 
on  his  job,  we  all  know  tha^,  sir,"  Dick  concluded, 
happy  in  the  thought  that  this  was  a  truly  pious  vein. 

The  third  man  of  the  delegation,  silent  thus  far, 
suddenly  moved  over  towards  the  spokesman.  "  Tell 
him  that  other  bit,"  he  whispered  vociferously,  with 
abundant  nodding  of  the  head. 

"What  bit?"  demanded  Dick,  whispering  with 
equal  power. 

"  You  know — the  bit  they  said  you  was  to  close 
with — about  the  Lord  an'  the  blessin'." 

"  Oh,  yes,  certain  sure,"  exclaimed  Dick,  much  re- 


^mzl 


Li  u 


}i2    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

lieved.  "I  clean  forgot—but  that's  understood  in 
matters  o'  this  kind.  They  said  as  how  they  hoped 
the  Lord  'd  add  on  His  blessin'.sir— it  was  Sandy  Sin- 
clair that  said  that  bit  ought  to  be  in.  Sandy  used 
to  be  a  kind  of  a  deacon  down  East— but  he  had  a 
relapse  out  here— he  got  a  thirst— but  he  remen)bers 
all  them  tiimmin's  all  right.  So  we  hope  the  LordU 
throw  in  His  blessin'— but  it  depends  mostly  on  you, 
there  ain't  no  doubt  about  that,  sir,"  concluded  Dick, 
evidently  well  pleased  with  his  handling  of  this  rather 
unfamiliar  department. 

Murray  was  pretty  much  at  a  loss  for  reply  of  any 
kind,  the  proposal  almost  overwhelming  him,  as 
touching  as  it  was  terrifying.  Finally,  after  consid- 
erable interchange  of  question  and  answer,  he  assured 
the  eager  delegates  that  they  should  have  his  reply 
in  the  morning,  early  enough  to  complete  or  cancel 
the  tentative  arrangements. 

The  men  were  hardly  gone  before  the  rejoicing 
Hawkins  had  Murray's  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"  It's  the  Lord  that  done  it,"  he  exclaimed  fervently. 
"  'E's  a-settin'  of  His  seal  to  your  ministry— you  'ad 
them  men  in  the  'ollow  of  your  'and  to-night.  An' 
that's  where  the  good  Lord's  got  you— you're  a-goin' 
to  'ave  souls  for  your  'ire,  sir." 

Murray  looked  long  into  his  face.  "  Do  you  think 
it's  my  duty  to  accept  ? "  he  asked  earnestly. 


"NOT  a    CALL-BUT  a     OLLER"   313 

••  Haccept !  Of  course  you'll  haccept !  I  thought 
that  other  was  a  call— that  there  call  in  the  curlin' 
rink— but  it  wa'n't  only  a  whisper  alongside  o'  this. 
This  ain't  a  call  -it's  a  'oiler,  sir.  They're  fair  a-'ol- 
lerin'  for  you— an'  if  you  don't  answer,  the  Lord'll 
have  summat  to  say  wiv  you,  sir,"  the  radiant  eyes 
aglcam  with  joy  and  hopefulness. 

But  Murray  was  at  a  loss,  sadly  perplexed.  The 
sense  of  incapacity,  the  fear  of  failure,  the  shrinking 
from  responsibility-all  these  held  him  back.  And 
especially,  hurt  and  wounded  as  he  had  been,  he 
feared  lest  his  motive  might  not  be  pure— he  found 
it  difficult  to  disassociate  this  new  enterprise  from  the 
memory  of  the  treatment  meted  out  to  him  by  the 
Reverend  Armitage. 

AI!  of  thi?,  as  the  dialogue  went  on,  Le  confided  to 
his  friend.  Whereupon,  after  some  silent  pondering, 
the  faithful  Hawkins  suddenly  arose,  beckoning  him 
to  follow.  Murray  did  so,  and  he  led  him  outside  the 
little  house. 

"  There,"  he  said  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
both  standing  now  beneath  the  placid  stars  ;  "  tliere 
—fight  it  out  'ere.  I'll  leave  you  alone— wiv  them. 
When  a  man's  got  a  'ard  problem,  'speciall-  •<■  another 
man's  mixed  up  wiv  it,  there's  no  place  to  n^  .  t  out 
like  'ere— wiv  the  mountains  an'  the  stars.  It's  be- 
ween  you  an'  them,  my  boy— they're  God's.     An- 


314    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

the  thoughts  of  what  any  man  done  to  you — or  what 
any  man  may  think — 'twon't  trouble  you  much  if 
you  let  them  speak  for  Him,  my  son.  Fight  it  out 
'ere— it's  the  nearest  to  the  Judgment  Day  there  is. 
An'  I'll  be  waitin'  for  you  in  the  'ouse,"  as  the  unlet- 
tered prophet  turned  back  and  left  the  wrestler  alone, 
his  Jabbok  all  about  and  above  him. 

Murray  was  not  long  without.  Matters,  even 
great  matters,  are  not  slow  of  settlement,  granted  an 
earnest  heart  and  the  arbitrament  of  Eternity. 

Silence  reigned  for  a  few  minutes  after  Murray  re- 
joined his  friend.  Then  the  old  man  rose,  turned  to 
the  shelf,  took  down  his  candle  and  lighted  it.  ••  I'm 
goin'  to  bed,"  he  said  ;  "  you'd  better  go  too — you've 
had  a  'ard  day." 

"  Not  yet  a  while,"  answered  Murray ;  "  I  want  to 
work  a  little — to  think  over  something  to  say  to  the 
boys  to-morrow  night." 

"  Glory  'Allelujah ! "  said  the  happy  Hawkins  as 
he  went  on  to  his  rest. 


niiiy 

I 


XXII 


P^HEN    THE   HEART   TAKES   FIRE 

SUCCESS  is  the  next  best  thing  to  failure — so 
far,  at  least,  as  concerns  the  interests  of  the 
soul.  The  first  requisite  to  ultimate  and 
enduring  power  is  the  sense  of  helplessness  that 
drives  one  in  on  the  Great  Source  of  strength,  "  from 
whom,'  as  the  mighty  Milton  said,  "  all  utterance  and 
all  knowledge  come," 

Moreover  it  is  likely  enough  that  Murray  McLean 
himself  was  the  only  one  who  would  have  described 
his  effort  of  the  following  evening  as  a  failure ;  it  is 
one  of  the  standing  mysteries  among  preachers,  both 
clerical  and  lay,  that  what  they  reckon  their  grandest 
efforts  are  usually  of  little  profit,  while  the  poor  spasms 
over  which  they  groan  in  secret  come  oftenest  back 
in  tributes  of  gratitude  and  love. 

There  was  much  to  test  the  young  evangelist  in 
that  opening  service.  The  Odd- Fellows'  hall  was 
crowded.  While  the  audience  was  a  mixed  one,  and 
many  of  the  men  had  their  wives  and  daughters,  yet 
the  great  majority  was  composed  of  the  sturdy  toilers 
whose  affection  Murray  had  so  completely  won.     All 

3'5 


iii 


^i6    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

were  abrim  with  enthusiasm  for  the  preacher— which 
is  not  as  helpful  as  would  be  generally  supp  ,.ed. 
Besides,  Murray  was  quite  untrained  to  t':-^  sort  of 
work,  his  chief  equipiaeut  being  that  great  Endow- 
ment without  which  he  would  never  have  begun  at 
all.  He  was,  moreover,  but  little  conscious  of  the 
strength  and  deftness  and  patience  that  he  must  have 
who  w—M  lay  siege  to  the  human  heart. 

The  tc.Iier  part  of  the  service  went  off  very  well, 
the  men  entering  heartily  into  the  singing,  led  by 
Murray  himself.  When  the  address  came—carefully 
rehearsed  beforehand  by  the  youthful  preacher— he 
dimly  felt  that  it  was  lacking  in  power.  The 
spontaneity  and  passion  of  the  night  before  seemed 
somehow  to  be  lacking— and  he  vainly  tried  to  re- 
call what  he  had  so  carefully  committed  to  his 
memory. 

But  worse  was  to  befall  him.     He  had  not  been 

speaking  more  than  five  minutes  or  so  when  suddenly, 

his  eye  hghting  on  a  row  of  seats  near  the  door  where 

most   of  the  ladies  present  were  congregated,  his 

heart  leaped  xvith  a  mighty  bound  and  the  sentence 

with  which  he  was  engaged  came  to  an  abrupt  and 

hopeless  close.     For  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face, 

pure  and  sweet,  reverence  and  sympathy  adding  to 

its  charm,  of  Hilda  Ludlow  !     She  was  looking  down, 

and  he  could  catch  the  droop  of  the  lovely  lashes. 


^^HEN  The  HEART  TAKES  FIRE  3,7 
could  detect  the  faint  tint  of  pink  in  the  oval  cheeks 
could  see  the  s.veet  lips,  parted  a  little,  as  thouc^h 
some  agitation  troubled  them-and  beside  her.  w.U 
eyes  turned  in  loving  devotion  on  her  benefactress 
was  the  very  girl,  snatched  from  the  hands  of  the' 
destroyer,  whom  Murray  had  guided  to  H.Ida's  door 
and  committed  to  her  care. 

The  relation  between  the  two  women  would  surely 
have  been  apparent  to  any  sympathetic  observer 
The  chnging  helplessness  of  the  one  and  the  almost 
maternal  tenderness  of  the  other,  the  joy  of  the 
deliverer  and  the  gratitude  of  the  delivered- 
these  were  to  be  seen  upon  those  two  serious 
faces.  And  Murray  noted,  even  in  the  agita- 
tion  -he  moment,  how  beautiful  was  the  light 
of   V  !    beauty,   of   strength   and   earnestness 

upon  tne  face  of  the  woman  whose  presence  had 
such  mysterious  power  to  kindle  his  heart  with 
flame. 

AH  Murray's  carefully  gathered  sermonic  thoughts 
were  scattered  now ;  scattered  and  flown  away  like 
some  winged  covey  before  the  huntsman's  tread 
He  pursued  them  wildly,  squandering  four  or  five 
minutes,  and  as  many  stammering  sentences,  in  the 
hopeless  chase.  Then,  with  the  composure  of 
despair,  he  flung  from  him  all  haunting  memories  of 
the  verbal  fugitives  and  gave  himself,  in  an  abandon- 


«l 


318    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

ment  of  simplicity,  to  a  simple  and  unconventional 
talk  to  the  souls  before  him. 

Which  seer  led  to  him  very  tame  and  profitless ;  as 
is  the  way  of  all  public  speakers  when  their  stateliest 
thoughts— like  an  angler's  biggest  fish-  shake  them- 
selves loose  and  flash  away  into  their  native  deep. 
But  he  knew  not  how  gracious  were  his  words,  how 
winsome  the  yearning  of  his  face,  how  touched  with 
power  the  simple  pleading  of  his  untutored  sentences. 

He  ceased  to  speak,  bitterly  aware  of  what  he  con- 
sidered the  failure  of  his  effort.  Deep  otillness  there 
was ;  but  he  attributed  it  to  sympathy  with  his  un- 
happy -trait.  Then  he  announced  thac  he  would  sing 
to  them,  gliding  almost  immediately  into  the  tender 
strain — and  the  silence  became  deeper  than  before. 

And  again,  as  on  the  previous  night,  with  wistful 
impulse  he  called  upon  all  who  would  to  take  their 
stand  openly.  Let  all  who  would,  he  urged,  thus 
bear  the  gracious  witness  by  rising  to  their  feet. 
And  to  his  amazement — for  the  fervid  guarantee  of 
the  three  delegates  had  passed  out  of  his  mind— al- 
most every  man  in  the  hall  rose  to  nis  feet.  The 
intrepid  Dick  had  been  the  first,  a  little  irritated, 
evidently,  that  the  others  were  not  quite  so  prompt 
in  their  action — for  he  turned  on  them  with  a  quick 
and  impatient  movement,  jerking  his  head  backward 
and  bestirring  with  a  fiery  glance  two  or  three  lag- 


IVHEN  The  HEART  TAKES  FIRE  319 
gards  who  seemed  indifferent  to  the  invitation.  Tl.cn, 
when  all  who  could  be  reasonably  expected  to  re- 
spond were  on  their  feet,  he  turnec'  a  triumphant  face 
towards  Murray,  nodding  in  a  confidential  sort  of 
way,  with  much  of  the  same  complacency  as  one  has 
seen  in  the  bearing  of  a  sagacious  collie  v/hen  the 
whole  flock  at  last  is  rounded  up. 

Murray,  aghast  at  the  wholesale  response,  spoke 
some  inarticulate  word  of  greeting  to  the  obedient 
throng  and  quietly  motioned  to  them  to  resume  their 
seats ;  which  they  did  with  the  air  of  men  who  had 
performed  their  duty  to  the  full. 

But  now  he  gave  his  appeal  a  different  for  1 ;  for 
his  ardour  was  still  unquenched-and  some  mysterious 
expectation  impelled  him  on. 

"  If  there  are  any  here --if  there  is  even  one—who 
will  come  out  to-night  on  the  Master's  side."  he 
pleaded,  all  embarrassment  vanished  now.  "  let  them 
come  forward  here-here.  to  me -and  I  will  welcome 
them  in  the  Master's  name.  If  there  is  one.  even 
one,  who  has  found  Him  gracious,  who  wishes  to  own 
Him  as  Lord  and  Saviour,"  he  repeated  wistfully. 

Then  he  wa:ted.  The  men  looked  at  each  other. 
at  a  loss  how  to  treat  this  new  appeal.  But  Dick, 
mindful  that  this  was  not  in  the  contract,  set  the  ex- 
ample of  immovable  silence,  cheerfully  followed  by 
them  all. 


320    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Murray  still  waited,  covetous  of  at  least  one  seal 
to  his  new-born  ministry.  And  at  last,  after  a  brief 
and  whispered  consultation,  two  figures  arose  and 
moved  out  to  the  aisle,  then  slowly  forward  to  where 
he  stood  transfixed.  One  was  the  lithe  and  gracious 
form  of  Hilda  Ludlow,  her  face  beautiful  in  its  spirit- 
ual purity,  its  religious  earnestness,  its  joy  of  helpful- 
ness—and  the  other  was  that  of  the  lonely  stranger 
she  had  taken  to  her  heart. 

Together  they  came,  the  homeless  and  friendless 
girl  nesthng  close  to  the  side  of  her  protector,  her 
hand  in  hers,  tears  shining  in  the  eyes  of  both.  Mur- 
ray advanced  to  meet  them,  his  face  aglow  with  a 
far-ofif  light;  it  was  the  joy  of  harvest. 

There  was  an  Altar  there,  invisible  to  human  eyes, 
erected  wherever  the  seeking  heart  gropes  dimly  for 
its  God  and  in  the  beauty  of  earnestness  worships 
there.  They  knelt  before  it ;  and  Murray  gave  his 
soul  to  the  highest  exercise  a  human  soul  can  know, 
tenderly  leading  towards  the  Light  a  trembling  spirit 
whose  darkness  had  but  yesterday  been  his  own. 
And  there,  before  the  eyes  of  the  wondering  throng, 
a  new  star  swam  into  the  firmament  of  Love,  a  new 
name  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Life. 

There  was  a  closing  hymn,  a  simple  invitation  to 
come  back  to-morrow  night— and  the  congregation 
filed  out  in  awesome  silence. 


i^HEN  The  HEART  TAKES  FIRE  ^21 
The  face  of  Henry  Hawkins  was  radiant  with  glad- 
ness when  he  joined  Murray  at  the  door.  They 
walked  home  together;  then  Murray  ask.d  hie  friend 
t.  excuse  him-and  went  forth  aimlessly  into  the 
night,  the  holy  night.  For  a  new  sense  of  power  had 
come  mto  his  life ;  he  was  sure  of  God-and  his  heart 
longed  for  that  vocal  silence  to  be  found  only  beneath 
the  stars. 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  later,  his  heart  still 
burnmg  within  him  by  the  way.  when  he  suddenlv 
noticed  that  he  was  close  behind  two  who  were  hur'- 
riedly  walking  a  little  distance  in  front  of  him.  their 
paths    converging  as  the  pair  turned  a  corner  and 
hastened  on  before  him.     He  knew  them  in  an  in- 
stant; they  were  Hilda,  and  the  guardian  Martin 
Possibly  it  was  the  reaction  from  the  high  spiritual 
tension  in  which  he  had  been  held-in  any  case 
Murray's  whole  being  was  aflame  in  a  moment,  and 
he  followed  with  tumultuous  heart.    A  minute  or  two 
later,  the  girl  turned  and  looked;  then  resumed  her 
way  more  hurriedly  than  before.     But  gradually  her 
footsteps  lagged,  and  if  he  had  not  moderated  his 
pace  he  would  have  come  up  with  them.     It  was 
however,  but  a  little  while  till  the  woman  turned  her 
face  agam.  uttered  some  faint  word  of  exclamation- 
and  waited, 

"  I  thought  it  was  your  she  said  embarrassedly  as 


4V.: 


Vi. 


322    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

he  came  up.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  would  be 
rcbting  now,"  her  voice  agitated ;  '<  I  walked  he  ne 
with  Abbie — that  was  the  girl  I  had  with  me  to- 
night ;  you  recognized  her  ?  " 

"  Ves,"  he  said  absently,  for  the  sheen  of  her  eyes 
was  upon  ium ;  "  yes,  I  saw  her— I  saw  you  both," 

"  And  Martin  came  to  bring  me  home—  he  knew 
where  I  would  be— he  always  knows,"  she  added 
disjointedly,  nodding  towards  the  servant  who  had 
by  this  time  moved  onward,  his  face  set  towards 
home.  "Oh!  wasn't  it  beautiful?  Abbie  is  so 
happy — and  so  am  1,"  she  exclaimed  fervently. 

"  May  I  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  home  with 
you?"  he  said  for  answer,  the  words  seeming  to 
come  out  mechanically  and  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
her  speech.  The  thrall  of  her  wonderful  eyes  was 
still  upon  him — and  his  wildly  beating  heart  told 
him  that  their  mystic  voice  was  all  for  him. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered  flutteringly — •<  I  couldn't 
think  of  taking  you  out  of  your  way  like  that— you 
must  be  tired." 

"  I  want  to  go,"  he  said  simply,  the  words  full  of 
that  nameless  power  that  girds  the  burning  heart. 
"  Come,  let  us  go — together." 

She  gave  a  little  gasp,  faintly  tried  :o  protest 
further,  yet  moved  along  beside  him.  "  You  may 
go  on  ahead— I  will  walk  home  with  Miss  Ludlow," 


IVHEN  The  HEART  TAKES  FIRE  323 

he  said  quietly  as  they  overtook  the  lagging  Martin 
—and  the  girl's  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  this  new 
strange  agitation  that  overswept  it. 

They  walked  on  together  through  the  night.  She 
triod  to  maintain  a  conversation,  naturally  reverting 
to  the  scene  in  which  both  had  been  engaged— but 
he  seemed,  strangely  enough,  given  over  to  silence. 
It  struck  her  with  wonder  that  all  the  enthusiasm 
should  be  on  her  part  and  not  on  his— but  gradually, 
and  fearfully,  she  began  to  understand. 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  till  they  reached  the  low 
fence  that  stood  before  her  home.  There  they 
paused,  t?'e  gate  idly  swinging  between  tiiem— oh, 
these  thrice  blessed  gates,  confidants  of  the  ages  ! 
The  moon  was  slowly  pursuing  her  tender  path 
above  the  glowing  horizon.  Old  Observation, 
topped  with  the  first  silvery  beams,  looked  down 
upon  »!ie  peaceful  scene— he  had  given  his  benedic- 
tion to  hundreds  thus  sacredly  employed  in  the  far- 
off  ages  when  mighty  men  of  valour  and  maidens  of 
dusky  beauty  had  walked  and  wooed  in  a  forgotten 
language. 

"  You'll  be  back  to-morrow  night— to  the  meet- 
ing ?  "  Murray  said,  breaking  a  long  silence. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  distant 
mountain,  its  pinnacle  slowly  brightening  in  the 
quivering   light.     "  If  I    can,"  she   said   genlly—..  I 


324    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

was  ordered  not  to  go  to-night— mother  forbade 
me  to  go,"  she  concluded,  her  voice  showing  her 
emotion. 

"  And  you  went  ?  "  he  answered. 
"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  yes,  I  went— I've  been 
trying  to  win  Abbie's  soul.  And  I  knew— some- 
thing told  me— that  it  would  come  to  that  to-night," 
and  as  the  girl  still  turned  her  face  towards  the  dis- 
tant grandeur  it  was  bright  with  more  than  earthly 
radiance.  -  You  brought  her  to  me— and  I  took  her 
in,"  she  went  on  as  if  to  herself;  "  then  I  brought 
her  to  Him— and  He  did  not  cast  her  out,"  the  light 
Jeepening  on  the  lovely  face. 

"  Well  ?  ■'  he  said,  as  one  might  speak  in  a  delirium. 
His  heart  was  riotous  to  madness. 

"Well,"  she  answered;  "  well— I'm  going  in," 
nodding  towards  the  massive  door  in  the  distance. 
••  But  to  what— to  what,  I  do  not  know.  Mother 
told  me  if  I  went  to  her  any  more— to  Abbie— or  to 
them— the  meetings,  I  mean— I  needn't  come  back 
here,"  and  now,  in  strange  contrast  to  the  jubilance 
of  a  minute  before,  a  sudden  storm  of  grief  swept 
over  her,  the  sad  eyes  filled  to  overflowing,  the  voice 
was  shattered ;  and  as  she  bowed  above  the  gate  her 
form  shook  with  the  gust  of  sorrow,  the  white 
shoulders  rising  and  falling  as  the  billows  seemed  to 
break  again  and  again  upon  her. 


H^HEN  The  HEART  TAKES  FIRE  325 

It  is  a  great  moment,— Niagara  in  all  the  stream 
of  life— when  a  man  who  has  come  to  the  strength 
of  manhood,  possessing  still  the  purity  of  early 
youth,  realizes  to  what  purpose  the  sanctity  of  his 
inmost  soul  has  been  kept  inviolate;  realizes  that 
the  long  garrisoning  of  the  heart  is  all  for  this,  that 
he  may  lay  its  treasure  store  in  sacred  passion  at  the 
feet  of  one  whom  he  has  come  to  love,  to  love  with 
abandunincnt  of  hfe  and  through  no  volition  of  his 
own,  to  love  regally,  almost  madly,  his  Paradise 
gained  at  last  in  the  very  luxury  of  loving,  all  the 
long  momentum  of  the  years  pouring  the  forces  of 
his  soul  in  this  mighty  waterfall  that  sweeps  all  be- 
fore it  and  enriches  the  future  days  with  fruitfulness 
and  beauty. 

Thus  loved  Murray  McLean  in  that  tremblmg 
hour,  beneath  the  shadow  of  Old  Observation ;  and 
amid  the  light  of  the  mystic  moon— and  beside  the 
sobbing  form  of  one  whose  very  grief  was  her  holy 
dower. 

"  Hilda,"  he  began  huskily,  his  hands  going 
nervously  out,  nervously  withdrawn ;  "  Hilda,"  he 
said  once  more,  as  some  sweet  strain  that  perforce 
must  be  repeated,  "  oh,  my  love,  my  darling— you 
know,  you  know— come,"  as  his  hands  touched  hers 
and  tried  to  draw  them  from  her  face,  his  whole 
frame  a-trcmble  with  the  thrilling  impact.     "  You 


)26    The  S/NGEK  of  The  KOOrENAY 

don't  need  to  go  back  home — to  come  here— to  go 
anywhere— only  to  me,  to  me,  my  darhng,"  his 
voice  s'.aiige  of  utterance  as  his  soul  pouicd 
through  it  with  resistless  passion,  "  I  love  you  so. 
And— and " 

He  stopped,  as  if  fearful,  bending  over  her  in  in- 
eflTable  compassion.  Then  he  waited— and  it  seemed 
an  eternity. 

Slowly,  so  slowly,  and  of  her  own  accord,  the  del- 
icate fingers  opened,  the  shape" y  hand  moved  from 
before  the  white  tear-stained  face— and  then,  like  the 
face  of  fate,  she  looked  out  at  him  in  ihe  semi-dark- 
ness. Her  lips  moved,  but  once  or  twice  in  vain. 
His  eyes  leaped  to  hers  ;  but  whether  they  spoke  of 
reproach  or  gladness  he  could  not  tell. 

"  You  should  not  -you  must  not,"  she  murmured 
faintly  at  last,  trembling  like  some  helpless  thing 
pursued,  Uke  one  who  stood  on  some  alluring  brink, 
strug^'ling  with  the  mighty  fascination. 

••  Why  should  I  not?"  he  cried  hotly,  his  hand 
touching  hers,  the  warm  blood  leaping  to  his  face  as 
he  lean»^d  over  nearer  her ;  "  why  not  ?  Don't  I  love 
you  ? — didn't  I  love  you  the  first  day  I  saw  your  face, 
your  lovely  face?  Wasn't  it  that  that  wakened  me, 
that  set  me  thinking  of  life— of  the  real  hfc  ?— isn't 
it  to  that  I  owe  my  soul  ?  "  he  demanded  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  her  hand  still  in  his. 


^U\ 


i 


H'HEN   The  HEART  TAKES  HIRE   U] 

She  turned  her  eyes  full  on  his  face,  glorious  now 
in  their  command.  "  Ml  tell  you  why  you  should 
not— why  you  shall  not."  she  bct:an.steru!y  control- 
ling herself ;  -for  one  thing— because  you  have-or 
ought  to  have— no  thought  of  this,  nozo.  Think  ol 
that  holy  scene  to-night— think  of  the  work,  the  new 
great  work,  to  which  you've  given  your  life. " 

••  Hut  do  you  love  me?  '•  he  broke  in  passionately; 
"do  you  love  me.  Hilda ?-tdl  me  that."  and  ilie 
strength  and  fervour  of  his  words  almost  overwhelmed 
the  girl. 

Even  in  the  faint   light  he  could  see  the  crimson 
tide  that  surged  up  over  neck  and  cheek  and  brow. 
But  her  voice  was  calm.     "  And  besides,"  she  went 
on.  Ignoring  his  demand,  "  you're  speaking  only  un- 
der great  excitement-and  I  am   responsible  for  it. 
What  I  told  you-what  I  said  about  my  home-and 
about  tiie  struggle  there,"  her  voice  quivering  again 
as  the  flashing  eyes  turned  towards  the  house,  "  all 
of  that  has  stirred  your  heart-and  your  pity."  she 
cried    in  heightened   tones  ;  "  yes,  your  pity  ioo- 
you're  sorry  for  me.  Mr.  McLean,"  the  plaintive  voice 
went  on_«'  you  pity   me_and  I  can't  stand  it-and 
It  must  not  be.     Oh  !  it  must  not  be  !     No,  don't- 

I  tell  you  don't " 

For  suddenly,  pushing  the  gate  aside,  with  a  low 
cry  his   A.11  heart  could  not  suppress,  he  had  flung 


!    ;  i     ■•■ 


328    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

himself  towards  her  with  overpowering  purpose  and 
a  moment  later,  so  swift  and  masterful  was  his  move- 
ment, she  was  trembling  in  his  arms. 

A  low  moaning  cry,  half  terror  and  half  rapture, 
broke  from  the  girl,  her  face  now  pale  as  death. 
"  Don't,"  she  panted,  so  low  that  he  could  scarcely 
hear,  for  the  sweet  breath  flowed  upon  his  cheek ; 
"  for  my  sake — Murray — oh,  for  my  sake — don't." 

And  in  a  moment  his  arms  relaxed ;  his  face,  now 
as  white  as  hers,  was  thrown  back  till  she  could  see 
its  pallor  in  the  uncertain  light ;  his  lips  moved  in- 
articulately— but  the  great  struggle  closed  in  vic- 
tory, and  she  was  free. 

An  instant  later  she  was  hurrying,  swaying  some, 
along  the  gravel  walk  to  the  door.  But  she  knew 
not,  in  that  moment  of  delirium,  that  it  had  opened 
long  enough  for  one  to  pass  without.  Murray  saw 
it,  blankly  staring,  as  it  opened  again  to  let  two  forms 
pass  through — but  he  marvelled  not  nor  cared. 

For  now  he  was  alone  in  an  empty  world.  And 
the  moon  had  risen  clear  of  the  horizon,  leaving  it 
aglow  with  silvery  light;  and  the  chilling  wind  sighed 
on  through  the  mighty  trees ;  and  the  silent  moun- 
tains kept  their  vigil  still;  and  Old  Observation 
looked  upward  now,  up  to  the  bending  dome,  glory- 
ing in  its  untroubled  calm. 


m^^mm 


xxiri 

HOH^  HILDA    FACED    THE  STORM 

DEEP  and  ominous  was  the  silence  that  pre- 
vailed as  Mrs  Ludlow,  followed  by  her 
daughter,  led  the  way  into  the  library,  cozy 
and  cheerful  in  the  glow  of  the  firelight.  Ah,  me ! 
the  bitterness  of  beautiful  rooms  and  blazing  hearths 
while  the  life  is  desolate  and  the  altar  fire  of  the  heart 
is  quenched  in  gloom  I 

The  woman  suddenly  turned  and  faced  her  child— 
and  the  look  in  the  set  features  revealed  the  rigour 
of  her  heart.  For  fully  a  minute  she  gazed,  the  girl's 
eyes  involuntarily  drooping  before  the  stare. 

"  I  know  it  all,"  she  then  broke  out  abruptly—"  I 
know  everything,"  her  face  wincing  at  the  pain  and 
humiliation  of  it.  "  Clara  told  me— she  was  at  that 
meeting— where  only  cooks  and  people  of  that  class 
would  demean  themselves  by  going— and  she  tells 
me  you  were  there.  That's  so,  isn't  it?"  pausing 
sternly  for  her  answer. 

Hilda  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  mother's.  "  Yes,"  she 
answered  gently  ;  "  yes,  I  was  there." 

"  I  knew  it.  That's  bad  enough— but  it's  not  the 
worst.    Clara  tells  me— how  can  I  repeat  it?— she 

329 


i 


1 ; 


'  ^ 


9  i 

If' 


ilii 


1     5 
-,1 


||: 


11 


530    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

tells  me  you  walked  the  length  of  the  hall,  down  to 
the  front,  with— with  that  woman  that  your  new 
friend— your  singing  friend—left  on  your  hands.  Is 
that  true,  Hilda?— Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me  it  isn't  true 
—surely  you  haven't  brought  disgrace  on  us  all  like 
that?"  as  she  came  closer  to  the  girl  before  her, 
leaning  over  in  a  sort  of  scornful  intensity. 

Hilda's  voice  was  very  low,  but  very  calm.  "  Yes, 
mother,"  she  answered,  lifting  the  big  eyes  again  to 
the  rigid  face;  "yes,  I  went  with  her.  She  gave 
her  heart  to  the  Saviour  to-night,  mother,"  the  pal- 
lid face  brightening  unconsciously  as  she  spoke— 
"  and  she  wouldn't  go  forward  without  me.  So  of 
course  I  went,  mother.  And  mother,  mother  dear," 
the  quivering   voice   went  on,  "  if  you  could  only 

know  what  it  means  to " 

But  the  words  seemed  only  to  stir  her  mother's 
heart  to  deeper  anger.  "  Stop  it,"  she  cried  hotly 
—"stop  your  preaching  and  answer  me  a  question. 
Who  was  that,  that  walked  home  with  you  to-night  ? 
I  saw  Martin  when  he  got  home— you  sent  him  on 
ahead— and  then  I  watched.  Wasn't  that  your  sing- 
ing  angel— the  man  who  conducted  that  service- 
where  you  disgraced  us  all  ?    Tell  me.  I  say." 

"  It  was  Mr.  McLean,"  Hilda  answered,  summon- 
ing all  her  self-control ;  but  the  furious  flush  would 
come,  as  come  it  did,  till  the  telltale  flood  kindled 


';;^=:'5=r: 


,j^:m:'si..j'^. 


HOIV  HILDA   FACED  The  STORM  ^31 

the  maiden's  face,  a  moment  before  so  pale,  with  its 
burning  flame. 

••  Ah  !  "  said  her  mother, "  I  knew  it— I  recognized 
your  friend;  yes,"  she  went  on  with  he  .ened 
tone ;  "  yes,  you  may  well  blush  for  shame— is  that 
the  usual  way  of  saying  good-night  ?— is  that  the 
custom  among  your  singers  and  your  preachers  ?  " 

All  trembling  was  gone  from  Hilda  now.  Un- 
consciously her  form  straightened  to  its  full  height 
and  the  face  she  lifted  undai'nted  to  her  mother's 
was  .'onderful  in  its  strength  and  passion. 

"  He  didn't,"  she  cried  hotly ;  "  I  didn't— we 
didn't.     And  you  shall  not— you  shall  not— speak 

like  that.     I  am  a  woman  now,  and  if  you " 

Mrs.  Ludlow's  lips  were  set  and  white.  Interrupt- 
ing, she  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  flashing  with  a  light 
Hilda  could  read  too  well. 

"  We'll  settle  it  right  now,"  she  almost  gasped, 
her  voice  low  in  its  dread  import ;  "  I  knew  this 
hour  would  come.  And  your  father  knows  it  all— 
and  he  will  agree  with  me.  And  it's  this— will 
you  give  up  this  nonsense,  this  shameful  nonsense  ?  " 
her  face  close  to  the  other's,  her  anger  gathering 
strength  as  she  went  on  ;  "  these  meetings,  to  begin 
with — will  you  ?  " 

Hilda  looked  a  moment  into  the  storm-swept  face. 
"  No,"  she  answered  calmly. 


Ilii 


3 

i-  1 


t  J 


;r 


if 


w.tM 


352    7he  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 
"  And  this,  this  girl,  that  was  brought  to   you 
from— from    the    Red  Light  district?"  she  added, 
the  dread  words  coming  after  a  breathless  pause.      ' ' 
"  No,"  said  the  girl,  gazing  into  her  mother's  face. 
"And  this  adventurer— this  preaching  singer— 
that  lives  with  old  Hawkins  ?  " 
"  No,"  came  again  from  the  pallid  lips. 
A  momentary  silence  followed,  broken  only  by 
the  woman's  heavy  breathing. 

"Then  we  part,"  she  panted  out;  "our  paths 
separate  now— you  can't  stay  in  this  house  and 
bring  disgrace  on  it  any  more.  You  have  chosen— 
and  you  can  have  your  choice.  If  you  prefer  those 
adventurers  to  your  own  kith  and  kin-why,  then, 
you  have  made  your  bed  and  you  must  lie  in  it.  I 
give  you  one  more  chance,"  she  added  as  a  sudden 
afterthought,  peering  breathlessly  into  her  daughter's 
face  for  an  answer. 

That  face  was  white  as  snow.  "Oh,  mother, 
don't,"  she  pleaded  brokenly— "  don't  viaJke  me' 
choose.  How  can  I,  mother— how  could  I  ever— 
choose  between  you,  you  and  father,  and  my  duty? 
I  cannot,  oh,  I  cannot,  give  up  the  new  life  I  have 
begun— never,  never— nor  you,  mother;  I  can't  give 
up  you  and  father-youVe  both  been  so  good  to  me 
and " 

"  Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this."  the  -^der  woman 


by 


//OfT  HILDA  FACED  The  STORM  333 
broke  in  sternly.  "  I  gave  you  another  chance— 
and  you  refused  it.  And  I  have  no  patience  with 
your  ranting— we  part  now  ;  now— not  to-morrow— 
but  now,"  she  went  on  more  stormily  than  before, 
her  wrath  rising  again.  "  And  if  ever  the  day  comes 
when  you  see  the  shame— and  the  wrong— of  what 
you're  doing,  you  can  come  back  to  me,"  with  which 
she  turned  and  made  her  way  towards  the  sitting- 
room  where  the  dauntless  fire  was  still  brightly  burn- 
ing. 

Hilda  was  now  close  to  the  stairs.    "  Where  will 
I  go,  mother?"  she  said  pitifully. 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  cruel  answer.  "To 
your  lady  friend— you  took  Aer  in  once,  you  know; 
or  to  those  two  sisters  where  you  acted  as  nurse— 
or  to  your  singing  preacher.  You  have  plenty  of 
friends,  you  see."  The  broken-hearted  girl  heard  it 
all  and  went  on  in  silence  up  the  stair. 

Yet  a  strange  calm  seemed  to  come  down  about 
her  as  she  made  her  way  to  her  own  room,  the  room 
she  was  now  to  leave  behind.  For  the  ancient 
promise  is  wonderfully  fulfilled  that  in  the  time  of 
trouble  He  will  hide  in  His  pavilion,  in  the  secret 
of  His  tabernacle  hide.  And,  before  ever  the  light 
was  kindled,  she  knelt  beside  her  bed  and  commended 
her  sorrowing  soul,  her  uncertain  steps,  to  Him 
whose  grace  had  so  lately  touched  her  heart— and 


I 


'  J 


I 

1  \ 


•  I, 


E 

"I 


l<  ^ 


"I 


^34    T'/i^  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

peace  like  a  river  seemed  to  flow  about  the  bruised 
and  wounded  spirit. 

Few,  very  few,  were  the  little  possessions  that  she 
gathered  together,  the  hot  tears  now  and  then  falling 
fast  upon  them  ;  and  at  last,  with  a  long  farewell  look 
about  the  room,  she  put  out  the  light  and  crept  softly 
down  the  stairs. 

The  library  was  in  darkness  now  and  no  sound 
issued  from  it.  Faintly,  wistfully,  she  called  her 
mother's  name— but  no  response  met  her  call.  And 
then,  the  bitter  sobs  coming  heavily  now,  she  opened 
the  door,  closed  it  gently  behind  her,  and  passed  out 
into  the  deep  stillness  of  the  night. 

She  stood  long  at  the  gate,  the  bewildered  brain 
trying  in  vain  to  think.  But  suddenly  there  rose  be- 
fore her  the  faces  of  the  two  motherless  girls  she  had 
befriended  in  their  hour  of  need,  whereat  she  started 
on  afresh,  the  fear  of  utter  homelessness  now  vanished. 
But  she  had  not  gone  more  than  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  when  her  heart  bounded  within  her  and  she 
stood  still  as  death— for  she  distinctly  heard  the 
slamming  of  the  door  she  had  so  recently  closed  be- 
hind her. 

And  then,  hurrying  onward  through  the  dark,  she 
could  descry  the  figure  of  a  man,  only  partially 
dressed  as  she  presently  saw,  a  coat  thrown  loosely 
about  his  shoulders.     It  was  her  father,  and  he  was 


'.-^tV  "■■■     -^     ^'i   •  ■  i'« 


H0I4^^  HILDA  FACED  The  STORM  335 
panting  in  his  haste.  A  moment  later  he  had  over- 
taken her,  and  as  her  eyes  leaped  to  his  fa«e  and 
searched  it  in  the  imperfect  light  she  saw  there  a 
strength  of  resolve,  almost  a  savagery  of  purpose,  of 
which  she  had  never  dreamed  him  capable.  Without 
a  word,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  covetous  fondness,  he 
held  out  his  arms  to  her-and  she  fell  into  them  like 
one  who  needed  warmth  and  shelter  for  the  soul. 

"  My  daughter !  "  he  murmured,  his  voice  touched 
with  a  tenderness  she  had  never  heard  before  ;  "  come 
home,  my  child-come  back  with  your  father.  I  know 
it  all-I  knew  it  all  before.  Oh.  my  poor  child,  my 
darhng!  "  as  he  still  held  her  close,  turning  as  ,f  to 
begin  the  homeward  way.  "  IVe  been  wrong,  my 
daughter-weak  and  wrong,"  he  murmured  once  or 
twice  as  they  passed  through  the  gate  and  made  their 
way  back  to  the  massive  door. 

"  Go  to  your  Sed.  my  child."  he  said  when  they 
were  within  the  hall ;  all  the  hesitation  and  the  un- 
couthness  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  him  like  a  gar- 
ment-- I  will  be— busy-busy  for  a  little  while." 

She  went  as  bidden,  marvelling  at  the  new  light  in 
his  face,  the  new  note  in  his  voice.  She  knew  not 
after  what  different  fashions  men  come  into  their 
kingdom ;  nor  by  what  strange  and  sudden  processes 
are  they,  out  of  weakness,  made  strong,  waxing  valiant 
'-n  fight,  turning  to  flight  the  armies  of  the  aliens. 


!-' 


I 


336  The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 
She  only  knew  that  her  own  heart,  despite  all  its  bur- 
den and  its  grief,  was  content  now  to  indulge  itself  in 
the  major  note  of  joy,  to  snuggle  down  to  rest  again 
where  it  had  rested  Jong,  and  to  commit  its  perplex- 
ing problem  to  the  Friend  s^  .  had  learned  to  trust 
and  love. 

And  the  only  thing  that  disturbed  her  rest  befell 
her  just  before  the  breaking  of  the  day ;  when  she  felt 
a  hand  touch  her  hair  upon  the  pillow,  a  man's  frame 
lean  over  her,  a  pair  of  unaccustomed  lips  touch  her 
brow  in  tender  fondness,  muttering  some  endearing 
words  she  had  scarcely  heard  since  childhood.  And 
she  was  like  a  child  again,  content  indeed  to  take  the 
children's  place— and  so  to  enter  anew  their  kingdom 
of  peace  and  rest. 


I' 


1/1 


XXIV 
A   MESSAGE  FROM    THE  DEAD 

THE  next  morning  found  Mrs.  Ludlow  grad- 
ually awaking  to  the  portent  of  the  situation. 
Then  began  the  mental  struggle-and  all 
through  that  day  her  husband's  face,  touched  with 
unfamiliar  fire,  kept  the  battle  waging  in  her  heart, 
bhe  had.  too.  encountered  Hilda  once  or  twice  but 
in  a  ghostly  sort  of  way-and  the  spectral  character 
of  thmgs  in  general  was  evidently  having  its  effect  on 
both      Wherefore  Mrs.  Ludlow,  slowly  recognizing 
the  folly  of  her  course,  was  in  a  sad  strait  betwixt 
two-resolved,  on  the   one  hand,   to   hold  to   her 
daughter,  and.  on  the  other,  to  terminate,  if  by  any 
means  she  could,  the  new  relationship  she  consid- 
ered so  degrading  to  them  all. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  light  came  to  her  at 
last.  A  way  out  of  the  dilemma  suddenly  flashed 
upon  her.  She  would  herself  acco^.^iish  Hilda's  re- 
lease from  the  self-assumed  guardianship  she  had  so 
impulsively  undertaken;  i(  she  could  once  get  her 
separated  from  this  unknown  girl,  this  ward  she  had 
so  foohshly  taken  under  her  wing,  it  would  be  an 
easy  matter,  so  reflected  Mrs.  Ludlow,  to  wean  her 

337 


■A^l>°.«  ■//>■ 


33i>    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

from  the  meetings,  and  from  all  this  religio.o  non- 
sense that  seemed  to  have  taken  such  a  hold  upon 
her. 

And  she  would  herself  achieve  this  desired  end; 
she  would  go  in  person  and  call  upon  this  nameless' 
stranger ;  she  would  lay  the  case  before  her,  tell  her 
of  the  threatened  rupture,  throw  the  onus  upon  her. 
and  appeal  to  her  b-tter  nature  to  end  the  association 
and  thus  restore  mother  and  daughter  to  each  other. 
Any  girl  of  spirit,  to  say  nothing  of  Christian  spirit, 
would  readily  make  the  renunciation  for  such  an  end. 
Nor  did  she  shrink  from  her  purpose  when  the 
time  came  to  put  it  into  execution.     The  observant 
Martin  knew  well  where  this  girl  in  question  lodged 
—and  Mrs.  Ludlow  soon  also  knew.    But  no  guardian 
Martin  for  her  as  she  went  forth  unaccompanied,  in 
the  early  dusk,  upon  her  diplomatic  errand.     And  no 
tremor  of  fear,  no  embarrassment,      >  misgiving,  gave 
pause  to  this  masterful  matron     ,  she  presented  her- 
self at  the  door  of  the  house   where  her  daughter 
had  found  temporary  lodging  for  the  hapless  stranger 
"  Step  in,  ma'am,"  said  the  woman  of  the  house  (to 
whom  Mrs.   Ludlow  was  Mrs.  Ludlow)  as  she  an- 
swered her  summons  ;  "  Miss  Merton's  just  stepped 
ut  to  post  a  letter— that's  the  name  of  the  person 
your  daughter  comes  to  see,  ma'am-but  she'll  be 
back  in  a  very  few  minutes.     Will  you . " 


I'fT,. 


•Kf;,:V'"i,ii  :'-'^ 


A    ME6SAGE   FROM    The  DEAD    339 

"  Merton ! "  Mrs.  Ludlow  interrupted  the  woman 
to  exclaim ;  "  did  you  say  her  name  was  Merton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  that's  her  name—positive  of  it— 
Abbie  Merton.  I've  seen  it  a  dozen  times  on  the 
letters  she  gets  from  Scotland.  Come  on  in,  ma'am 
—just  step  into  her  own  room ;  it's  the  only  place  I 
can  offer  you,  we're  that  busy  with  the  ironing,"  as 
she  glanced  about  the  little  living-room.  "Take 
that  chair  there,  ma'am-I  know  she  won't  be  more 
than  a  few  minutes." 

Mrs.  Ludlow's  stately  poise  had  vanished  as  she 
sank  into  the  chair  and  motioned  the  garrulous  land- 
lady to  leave  her  alone.  Some  strange  emotion  had 
suddenly  taken  possession  of  her;  and  as  she  glanced 
nervously  about  the  room  she  muttered  once  and 
again  the  name  that  had  so  suddenly  disturbed  her 
peace  of  mind. 

A  moment  later  she  rose,  trembling  some,  and  sur- 
veyed the  little  room.  Almost  its  only  ornament 
was  a  picture,  cheaply  framed,  that  stood  on  a  tiny 
table  beside  the  bed.  She  glanced  at  it.  Then  she 
seized  it  greedily.  A  moment  Jaf  .r  she  was  by  the 
window,  holding  it  to  the  failing  li  ,ht. 

"  Please  bring  me  a  lamp,"  a  ae  suddenly  from 
her  white  lips  as  she  hurried  to  c.  •  door  and  callec! 
the  now  invisible  landlady. 

"She's  comin',  ma'am,"  the  latter  announced  as 


1.m:',i« 


IF 


)\o  The  SINGER  of  The  K0O7ENAY 
Sh  -  a-neared  a  m.nute  later  with  the  lamp.  «  I  car 
tell  b  •  down  the  street;  you  see.  ma'am.  IVe  kind 
i  --  '  V.  to  know  her  a  long  ways  ofT-me  an'  Gertie 
-  .  -iy  '  oks  out  for  her  when  she's  comin'  from  hei 
^>"  '<  rertie  all  but  worsiiips  her— an'  if  t  lere  ever 
I-  «   i    l.ar,  u'.c  her,"  as  she  set  the  lansp  on  the 

^u  .  .  .       nrk'     •      rpreting  Mrs.  L  idlow's  evident 
^       ■•  .  alone. 

rUe  linutes  that  intervened  were  like  an 

ef'nity  waiting  woman.     Mrs.  Ludlow  stood 

motionless,  her  eyes  still  glued  upon  the  face  in  thr 
pxture.  ^vhile  years  long  dead  and  gone  filrd  swiftly 
before  her  troubled  mind.  And  as  they  came  and 
went,  dead  though  they  were,  they  touched  into  life 
and  passion  a  thousand  slumbering  mrmories-and 
the  sweet  pure  breath  of  girlhood  flowed  again  about 
the  stern  and  lonely  heart. 

She  was  still  gazing  when  the  door  opened  softly..- 
and  the  girl  she  had  come  to  see  was  now  before  her. 
Mrs.  Ludlow  moved  over  swiftly  and  closed  the  dooi 
Then  she  turned  towards  the  other,  vainly  striving 
to  be  calm. 

"Is  this  your  mother,  child?'  she  asked  breath- 
lessly, holding  the  picture  up  before  her. 

"  Yes."  the  maiden  answered  timorously;  '■  aren't 
you  Miss  Ludlow's  mother?"  the  lips  parted  as  she 
waited  for  an  answer. 


A    MESSAGE   FROM   The   DEAD    ^4, 
"  Yes,"  came  the  swift  reply,  as  if  bcgrudguig  the 

time  spent  on  ,t.    "  Was  her  name  Abbie     her  given 

name,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Ves."  the  girl  answered,  her  eyes  wide  with  won- 
der mixed  with  mysterious  fear. 

••Abb.e  what?_her  maiden  name,  I  mean, "  the 
other  pressed. 

"  Abbie  Larmonth,"  came  from  the  trembhng  lips. 
Mrs.   Ludlow  uttered   something  liUe  a  cry  and 
sank  into  the  chair  beside  her. 

"  Where  from'-whcre  did  she  livcP-as  a  gi.l,  I 
mean." 

The  younger  woman  hesitated  a  moment.  ••  From 
Canada."  she  replied  a  moment  later ;  «  New  C,  ,ns- 
wick.  I  think -near  a  place  called  Frcdericton-I've 
often  heard  her  speak  of  it.  And  she  marrie.I  my 
father  therc-and  they  came,  they  both  came,  to 
Scotland.  I  was  born  there."  the  utterance  Rrou-in-^ 
bolder  as  she  went  on ;  she  stepped  closer  and  hek^ 
out  her  hand  towards  the  photograph. 

But  Mrs.  Ludlow  held  it  back.  •<  And  she  married 
Merton- Melville  Plerton,  a  Scotchman  ?-they  ran 
away  ?  And  we  thought  she  married  b.i.cath  hcr- 
perhaps  we  were  wrong;  and  she  resented  it  -and 

we  never  saw  her  after ;  and " 

-mo  thought  so?"  the  girl  broke  in  excitedly 
commg  closer  to  Mrs.  Ludlow,  her  cheeks  aflame.' 


I 


342    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOIENAY 

her  eyes  flashing.  The  latter  rose  unconsciously  to 
her  feet.  "  My  father's  dead,  Mrs.  Ludlow— but  he 
was  as  true  a  gentleman  as  ever  breathed— he  died 
when  I  was  fourteen,  but  mother  and  I  lived  on  his 
very  memory.  Who  thought  so,  Mrs.  Ludlow?" 
she  demanded  almost  sternly. 

"  We— I— I  thought  so,"  the  older  woman  stam- 
mered, her  eyes  turning  again  to  the  picture.  "  But 
I've  regretted  it  long  since— and  I  would  have  found 
her  out,  only  I  didn't  know— none  of  us  knew  where 
she  was,  except  that  she  had  gone  to  Scotland.  And 
she  was  the  only  sister  I  ever " 

But  now  the  girl  was  almost  upon  her.  One  hand 
clutched  the  woman's  wrist,  and  the  words  came  hot 
from  the  panting  lips, 

"Sister!"  she  cried  incredulously,  the  word  ac- 
companied by  a  quick  gush  of  tears ;  "  what's  that 
you  say— tell  me,  oh,  tell  me— quick." 

Mrs.  Ludlow's  ej'es,  all  dim  and  misty  now,  were  on 
the  picture ;  and  she  scarcely  seemed  to  hear.  The 
girl  shook  the  arm  she  held  in  an  ever-tightening 
grip. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  demanded  in  a  trembling  voice— 
"are  you  Martha ?_my  Aunt  Martha ?— mother's 
only  sister  ?     Oh,  tell  me,  quick." 

Mrs.  Ludlow  turned  with  one  long  yearning  look 
upon  the  quivering  face,  the  fountains  of  her  heart 


m 


■^iS.  ■  ■■'i*ii'3i="^'i:,.iirfCiM; 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  The  DEAD  34^ 
breaking  up  within  her.  She  whispered  something 
unable  to  form  the  words  aright,  then  slowly  held  out 
her  arms  and  sought  to  draw  the  trembling  girl  to 
her. 

But  the  younger  woman  leaped  to  her  feet  and 
turned  with  impassioned  eagerness  towards  a  little 
chest  beside  the  bed. 

"  Wait,  •  she  faltered;  '«  wait-ifs  here.  Here,  in 
the  Bible-where  I've  kept  it  all  the  time.  It's  a  let- 
ter mother  gave  me,  to  my  Aunt  Martha,  just  before 
she  died-when  she  knew  I  was  coming  to  America. 
She  said " 

"  Is  she  dead-is  your  mother  dead?  "  the  woman 
beside  her  bro,,.  in,  her  face  ghostly  white. 

"  Yes,"  came  brokenly  from  the  tlier—"  they're 
both  dead.  That  is  why  I  came  away_I  came  just 
after  I  was  left  alone."  the  words  touched  with  an 
orphan's  grief.  "  And  mother  said  perhaps  I'd  find 
you  here,  in  Canada.  But  she  never  knew  your 
married  name-you  see,  you  were  only  Martha  Lar- 
month  to  her.  But  I  know  she  loved  you-and  I 
know  she  forgave  you.  or  she  wouldn't  have  sent  this. 

And  I  never  dreamt  of  it Here,  this  is  mother's 

letter.  And  it's  for  you— Aunt— ^««/  Martha;'  she 
faltered  faintly,  trembling  as  she  held  out  the  slcred 
missive. 

The  woman  beside  her  took  the  letter,  her  hand 


344    The  SINGER,  of  the  K007ENAY 

shaking  so  she  could  scarcely  open  it.  Close  to  the 
lamp  she  held  it  while  she  read.  Once  more,  and 
yet  once  again,  she  scanned  the  message  from  the 
dead,  vainly  trying  to  stem  the  tide  that  dimmed  her 
eyes  with  tears. 

Then  she  pressed  it  tenderly  into  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  "  It's  for  me,"  she  murmured ;  "  for  no  one 
else  but  me.  Oh,  Abbie,  Abbie,"  the  voice  a  wail  of 
unavailing  loneliness,  "  come ! "  with  which  she  took 
the  now  sobbing  girl  to  her  bosom  and  held  her  in  a 
passion  of  tenderness  and  remorse  and  penitence  that 
swept  her  soul  like  a  summer's  storm. 

And,  less  than  an  hour  later,  when  the  mistress  of 
the  Ludlow  mansion  passed  again  within  its  door, 
she  was  not  alone.  And,  an  hour  later  still,  the  fire 
was  blazing  with  unwonted  merriment  on  the  hearth 
and  Hilda  sat  before  it  in  silent  bliss ;  for  they  were 
both  beside  her — both,  the  one  given,  the  other  re- 
stored, but  both  to  be  her  own  forever. 

Simon  Ludlow  was  not  there.  At  least,  not  when 
the  full  hour  had  expired.  For  the  great  simple 
heart  could  stand  no  more  ;  he  had  borne  up  against 
this  crushing  gladness  till  he  could  bear  no  longer — 
so  he  had  stolen  away  and  gone  up-stairs  alone. 
And,  as  he  went,  the  tears  that  coursed  down  .he 
furrowed  cheeks  told  the  story  of  the  intolerable  joy. 


//'f  i^-- 


i:^--%    --"rt 


*- 


{ 


XXV 
IVH/IT    THE   NEIV  MOON  BROUGHT 

WAS  it  quite  by  accident  that  Simon  Lud- 
low, in  the  waning  afternoon  of  a  few  days 
later,  should  have  met  Murray  McLean 
as  the  latter  was  strolling  along  one  of  the  streets  that 
led  outward  from  the  town  ?  In  any  case,  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  by  accident  that  he  stopped  him  with 
such  warmth  of  friendliness  and  entered  into  conver- 
sation. For  Mr.  Ludlow  knew  a  thing  or  two— and 
he  kept  abreast  of  the  affairs  of  the  heart  much  better 
than  his  home  folks  gave  him  credit  for. 

"  No  curling  this  evening,  Mr.  Champion  ?  "  he  be- 
gan jocularly  after  a  few  words  had  passed. 

"  No— too  mild  again,"  returned  tne  expert,  with 
the  air  of  sadness  that  a  rising  thermometer  brings  to 
your  true  curler. 

"  No  meeting  to-night  ?— nothing  doing  in  the  Odd- 
Fellows'  hall  ? "  Mr.  Ludlow  continued. 

"  No— it's  Saturday,"  Murray  answered,  smiling, 
not  yet  accustomed  to  this  new  role.  "  But  it  brought 
me  some  luck  -I  got  good  news  to-day." 

345 


!     '■' 


346    The  S/NGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

Mr.  Ludlow  indicated  that  he  wouldn't  mind  hear- 
ing further. 

"I've  been  promoted,"   Murray  went   gaily  on; 
"  the  company  wants  to  take  me  away  from  my  old 
friend  Mr.  Hawkins.     At  least,  from  working  with 
him,  as  I've  been  doing  for  some  time  lately.     They 
have  offered  me  quite  a  good  position  in  the  ofEce— 
director  of  supplies,  or  something   like  that,"  and 
Murray's  face  showed  his  satisfaction. 
"  You'll  take  it?"  surmised  Mr.  Ludlow. 
••  Oh,  1  suppose  so— though  I've  really  enjoyed  this 
teamster  job.     Glorious,  these  crisp,  sharp  days.     I'll 
miss  the  mountains  dreadfully,  I  know,  if  I  go  into  the 
office.     But  I  dare  say  it  may  work  in  better  with 
—with  this  new  kind  of  evening  work  that  I've  taken 
on,  among  the  boys,"  he  added  seriously. 

"  Mountains  if  all  right,"  rejoined  Mr.  Ludlow— 
"  that  is,  to  a  certain  extent.  But  they're  not  very 
fillin',"  he  added  with  a  grin.  "  Say,"  he  suddenly 
digressed,  "  you  won't  give  up  this  evenin'  job  you're 
speakin*  about— the  meetin's,  I  mean?"  looking 
somewhat  searchingly  now  into  Murray's  face. 
"  You  won't  ever  jump  that  job,  will  you  ?  " 

Murray  paused.  "  I  hope  not,"  he  answered  slowly; 
"  if  the  boys  can  stand  it,  I  guess  I  can." 

Mr.  Ludlow  started  to  say  something  else.  He 
seemed,  however,  to  find  it  difficult,  though  evidently 


ii^HAT  The  NEH^  MOON  BROUGHT  ^47 
he  had  something  important  on  his  mind.  "  Say  "  he 
began  at  last---  you  ought  to  go  into  it  altogether  " 

Murray  started,  looking  enquiringly  at  him. 

"  Yes.  altogether."  the  other  repeated.    "  An'  you 
ought  to  get  rigged  up  for  it.  in  the  reg'lar  way 
Say.  you  were  pretty  near  through  college,  weren't 
you.  when  you  got-when  you  stopped  goin'?"  he 
revised  quickly, 

Murray  smiled,  rather  remorsefully  too.  ••  I  was 
pretty  well  on  with  my  Arts  course."  he  replied  at 
length.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh.  well,  nothin'-only  I  think  you  ought  to 
finish  ,t  clean  up.  They'd  be  glad  to  have  you  back 
-now,"  he  added,  the  last  word  more  significant  than 
he  meant  it  to  be. 

Murray  laughed  as  indifferently  as  he  could 
"That's  out  of  the  question,  I'm  afraid."  he  replied 
after  a  little  pause-"  I  mustn't  let  myself  think  about 
that." 

Mr.  Ludlow's  reply  came  swiftly.  "  I  know  a  man 
that  has  been  thinkin'  about  it  a  lot."  he  thrust  in 
eagerly-.,  'specially  just  lately.  An'  he's  lookin'  for 
that  kind  of  an_an  investment,"  he  broke  out 
triumphantly,  well  pleased  with  the  word.  "  An'  he 
don't  want  ever  to  see  anybody  jump  a  job  like  this 
evenm'  job  o'  yours-that  is,  when  he's  makin'  good 
at  It.  you  know,"  he  added  confidentially,  both  men 


f  i 


tt 


348    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

unconsciously  walking  by  this  time  with  hurried  pace 
in  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

Murray  seemed  unable  to  maintain  the  dialogue 
further,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  stammering  pro- 
tests, so  utterly  was  his  mind  in  a  whirl  as  the  result 
of  these  cryptic  speeches. 

"  Say,"  Mr.  Ludlow  broke  in  abruptly  ;  "  that's  our 
Great  Dane  barkin',  there— don't  you  hear  him  ?— 
that's  our  place  right  over  there.  What's  the  use  of 
us  walkin'  no  place  in  partik'lar  ?  Come  on  over  to 
the  park— that's  where  we  first  ran  agen  each  other, 
you  mind— an*  let's  try  if  we  can  see  the  baby 
beaver ! " 

"  What  ? "  ejaculated  Murray,  his  brain  in  more  of 
a  swirl  than  ever. 

"  The  baby  beaver,"  Mr.  Ludlow  repeated  calmly. 
"  That  girl  o'  mine  promised  you  to  see  it  some  day, 
didn't  she  ?  "  his  eyes  turning  away  from  Murray's 
face,  fixed  now  on  the  imperturbable  mountains  in  the 
distance.  •«  The  baby's  bigger,  of  course,  now— but 
still  it's  there  somewheres.  Come  on,"  his  eyes  still 
fixed  on  a  distant  peak. 

Murray  followed,  his  heart  beating  like  a  wild  thing, 
his  sight  unsteady  from  the  storm  that  now  swept  his 
soul.  He  had  not  known  till  then  how  deep  and 
dull  that  heart's  ache  had  been. 

They  changed  their  course,  turning  a  sharp  corner 


I 


liil 


l^H^T  The  NEIV  MOON  BROUGHT  349 
in  the  direction  of  the  distant  baying,  still  to  be  heard 
from  Mr.  Ludlow's  faithful  hound.  The  mountains 
gave  back  the  sound. 

But  they  had  proceeded  less  than  a  hundred 
yards  when  Murray  suddenly  stopped.  Some  one 
was  calling  him.  hurrying  forth  from  an  adjoining 
yard.  He  recognized  the  man  in  a  moment-it  was 
Dick,  the  spokesman  of  the  delegation  that  had  come 
to  see  him  about  the  meetings. 

"  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute,  sir,"  he  began  as  he 
came  up—-  only  I  got  ahold  of  him." 

••Ahold  of  himl-ahold  of  whom?"  echoed  Mur- 
ray. 

"  Oh,  you  know-I  got  ahold  o'  that  cuss  you've 
been  after  so  long.  That  there  geezer  you  said  spoke 
to  you  the  day  you  was  out  at  Bear  Creek  Camp; 
the  guy  that  done  time,  you  know— that  changed  his' 
name  when  he  jumped  the  cooler." 

"What's  that  again?"  Murray  was  compelled  to 
enquire;  this  richly  coloured  vocabulary  was  a  little 
too  much  even  for  him. 

"  Oh.  you  know."  Dick  repeated  a  trifle  testily  • 
"  I  got  next  to  that  there  lobster  that  cottoned  up  to 
you  the  day  you  preached  at  Bear  Creek  Camp-he 


got  a  line  on  you  all  right.     Gave  , 
autybiography.  you  mind— said  he  used 
biled  shirt  down  East 


you  part  of  his 
to  wear  a 


an'  go  to  Sunday-school.    An' 


'v;ii^;^'^i<%^'.:i* 


t  ' '  'H 


^50    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOIENAY 

he  told  yoa  he  done  time — put  up  a  while  in  jail," 
Dick  explained  with  distasteful  baldness — "  an'  then 
he  chucked  his  name.  All  the  boys  knew  he'd 
been  in  the  coop,  anyhow — an',  what's  more,  they 
knew  he  left  without  no  partin'  words.  They  seen 
traces  o'  buckshot  in  his  breeches — in  the  seat  of 
honour,  too ;  so  that  indicated  he  was  endeavourin' 
to  get  tf«/— an'  not  to  get  in"  Dick  elaborated  with 
great  care.    "  W  Jl,  I  got  ahold  of  him,  sir." 

"  Oh,  did  you  ?"  the  now  enlightened  Murray  re- 
plied. "  Of  course  I  remember  him — I've  been  look- 
ing for  him  myself.  He's  the  chap  who  said  his 
father  was  a  Presbyterian  minister  down  in  Ontario." 

"  That's  him,"  rejoined  Dick  cordially ;  "  an'  it's 
t-^ue  as  gospel — 'tisn't  hard  to  tell  he  was  brought  up 
Presbyterian,  I  tell  you.  When  he  gets  about  two 
fingers  of  •  Oh,  be  Joyful '  into  him — he  liquidates, 
you  know — he  rebukes  the  boys  for  swearin' ;  when 
he  gets  a  couple  more,  he  mos'  ^en'rally  sings  a  httle 
hyma ;  when  he  puts  two  more  out  o'  pain — his 
in'ards  is  made  o'  sponge,  sir — he  always  starts  on  a 
psalm  ;  an'  when  he  has  a  little  more — why,  then,  he 
always  wants  to  argify  about  Perdestination  an'  Free- 
will. Oh,  yes,  he's  a  Presbyterian  a.  ight,"  Dick 
concluded  confidently ;  "  he's  got  his  his  2  faults  hke 
the  rest  of  the  boys — but  he  ain't  no  liar,  sir." 

"Did   you   tell  him  I  hadn't  forgotten  what  he 


"i" 


i^HAT  The  NEU^  MOON  BROUGHT  y^i 
promised  me.  or  half  promised  me.  at  least-that  he'd 
come  to  the  meetings  after  he  came  to  town  ?  Did 
you  remind  him  of  that?"  Murray  asked,  striving  to 
preserve  his  gravity. 

••  Sure  thing/'  responded  Dick.  "  But  he  said  you 
was  referrin'  to  the  meetin's  in  the  Presbyterian 
Church-the  ones  that  old  sardine's  runnin'  there 
-Dr.  Seymour,  or  whatever  his  name  is.  you 
know." 

"  So  I  was,"  answered  Murray;    "  Did  he  go  ?  " 
"  Not  jes'  exactly,"  Dick  answered  with  a  grin- 
"real  funny,  sir.  the  way  he  took  on  when  I  wanted 
h.m  to  go  there.     Most  singular,  considerin'  as  his 
own  guv'nor  was  the  same  kind  as  the  fellow  that's 
runnm'  the  show  over  there.     I  kind  o'  fancy  there's 
been  an  argyment,  like,  between  him  an'  the  Rev- 
erend  gentleman  down  East,  from  the  way  he  talked 
-but  then  that's  kind  o'  like  the  Presbyterian  way  o' 
dom'.  too.  ain't  it  nowi»"  Dick  enquired  seriously 

"  Not  necessarily."  Murray  responded  briefly- 
"and  isn't  he  coming  to  the  meetings  at  all.  then  ?" 
"That's  the  pint  exactly."  Dick  responded  pon- 
derously; u  he's  a-goin'  to  come.  Mr.  McLean-he's 
com.n'  Monday  night-to  W  meetin',  Mr.  McLean. 
But  he  says  he's  goin'  to  sit  near  the  door.  He  had 
i>cr,ptur'  for  that,  too.  mind  you-though  I  don't  re- 
member exactly  what  it  was^  somethin'  about  a 


352    7he  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

fresh  Johnnie  that  got  called  down  an'  chucked  into 
a  lower  seat,  I  think." 

"  I  recognize  the  text,"  Murray  answered,  smiling 
— "  but  it  doesn't  matter  where  he  sits,  so  long  as 
he's  there.     I'm  mighty  glad  he's  coming,  Dick." 

"  I  knew  you'd  be,"  was  Dick's  response — "  that's 
why  I  told  you.  I  won't  keep  you  no  longer,  sir — 
only  he'll  be  there  Monday  night,"  with  which  the 
bearer  of  good  tidings  turned  and  went  back  the  way 
he  had  come. 

"  You'll  get  that  fellow  yet,  between  you  an'  Dick," 
Mr.  Ludlow  opined  as  he  walked  on  with  Murray  ; 
"  you've  got  a  lovely  job,  Mr,  McLean.  Don't  evei 
jump  it — leastways,  not  for  good  an'  all." 


A  few  of  its  antlered  tenants  were  still  stalking  aboul 
the  park  as  Murray  and  his  host  strolled  through, 
the  dead  leaves  rustling  about  their  feet.  Mr.  Lud- 
low led  the  way  towards  the  beaver  dam. 

"  They're  not  so  easy  seen,"  he  informed  his  guesi 
as  they  went  on,  "  when  the  winter's  settlin'  in — tht 
little  beggars  stick  pretty  close  to  their  burrows  wher 
it's  colder.  There's  the  dam,  see,  a  little  ways  be 
yond  that  pine.  Why,  who's  that  callin'  ?  "  he  sud 
denly  interjected — "  blest  if  it  ain't  Martin — here 
here,  Martin  !  "  he  answered  lustily.  "  It'll  be  som< 
one  waitin'  for  me  at  the  house,"  he  complained  tc 


vX 


mi 


U^Hy4T    The   NElV   MOON  BROUGHT  ^53 

Murray;  "seems  as  if  I  couldn't  never  get  left  alone." 
turning  as  he  spoke  to  the  servant  now  within  hear- 
ing  distance. 

"  Just  what  I  'lowed."  he  grumbled.  Martin's  mes- 
sage having  been  conveyed ,  -  it's  one  c/  them  pesky 
engineers  that's  always  plaguin'  me.  Im  terrible 
sorry.  Mr.  McLean-but  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  go.  I'll 
send  some  one.  though,  to  show  you  that  there  baby 
beaver-that  is.  if  he  ain't  in  his  little  crib.  You 
wait  right  here,"  with  which,  after  some  additional 
apology,  he  followed  the  retreating  Martin  and 
moved  onv/ard  to  the  house. 

Murray  waited,  madly  impatient,  amid  the  fast 
failing  light.  And  by  and  by.  a  white  skirt  flutter- 
ing as  the  maiden  came  out  into  the  gathering  gloom, 
appeared  the  tall  and  graceful  figure  he  would  have 
recognized  anywhere  in  all  the  arid  plain  of  life. 

She  came  on.  ever  nearer— and  as  if  glad  to  come ! 
He  marvelled,  trembling,  knowing  not  what  to  think 
or  say  or  do.     Truth  to  tell,  he  knew  nothing-noth- 
•ng  but  this,  that  his  heart  hunpered  for  her.  that  his 
life,  poor  and  worthless  as  it  seemed,  had  its  hope  of 
usefulness,  of  peace,  of  rapture,  only  in  the  fullness 
and  power  that  her  love  alone  could  give.     Which 
she  had  denied-and  he  knew  not  why,  as  now,  she 
came  ever  nearer,  the  sweet  beauty  of  innocence  and 
goodness  on  the  placid  face. 


-XHBfcffu 


Mfm  wkL 


llii! 


5,4    7he  S/NGER  of  Ike  K007ENAY 

He  moved  towards  her  —then  stopped  and  stood 
stiil.  But  bhe  came  on,  the  pure  breath  of  the  even- 
ing about  her  as  she  moved  lightly  through  the  grass, 
glancing  once  or  twice  at  the  serene  sky  above,  at  tljc 
mountains  mingling  gently  with  the  dusk,  at  the 
swaying  pines  tliat  sang  tlieir  lullaby  from  the  breast 
of  the  mighty  hills. 

As  she  came  up  to  him,  she  held  out  her  hand. 
Its  touch,  so  warm  and  soft,  thrilled  him  to  the  heart. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  came,"  she  began  frankly. 
•'  And  I  hope  you'll  have  time  to  come  in  and  see  us 
all  before  you  go  back  -mother  told  me  to  ask  you. 
Did  you  want  to  see  the  baby  beaver  ? — you  re- 
member you  didn't  see  it  before."  The  girl's  self- 
control  was  wonderful. 

•'  No,"  said  Murray,  his  lips  parted  wide. 

She  was  not  prepared  for  this — and  something  of 
a  silence  followed.  "  You  haven't  any  meeting  to- 
night ?  "  she  said  at  length. 

••  No,"  he  answered,  his  breath  still  coming  fast. 

This  was  embarrassing.  "  Everybody's  delighted 
that  your  work  is  going  on  so  well,"  she  tried 
again — "  but  I  don't  believe  anybody's  as  glad  as  I 
am." 

He  gave  no  answer — and  the  awful  cry  of  some 
wild  thing  could  be  heard,  in  the  ensuing  silence,  far 
up  on  the  mountainside.     A  new  moon  was  timidly 


''.MM,.. 


if^H^T   The    V£W^   MOON  BROUGHT    J55 

peeping  above  the  mountains  crest   -but  the  wild 
cry  went  on. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  news  about  Mr.  Garlocl.  ?  "  she 
ventured  again,  now  hard  put  to  it  for  matenal. 

"  Who's  he?"  M.rray  enquired  vacantly. 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  with  just  a  .hade  of  im- 
patience, "you  know- -he's  the  minister  of  the 
Presbyterian  Cl.urci.  in  Rockclifrc.  He  went  away 
for  his  heal  J,.  \V,:i,  u  seems  he  hke.  where  he's 
gone  so  well  th  a  h.  h.s  taken  u  .hurch  there -they 
just  heard  to-day-...;  t'laf  leaves  the  church  here 
without  a  minister.  Whon.  do  yon  suppose  they'll 
get  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Murray  replied  absently-"  but 
they'll  get  somebody.  I  guess."     The   night    .     .^• 
was  beginning  to  sigh  in  the  trees-and  a  new  •  nir. 
broke  the  silence  now  from  the  wooded  wilds,  aa   = 
ing  to  that  of  its  savage  mate. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  call  Dr.  Seymour?'  tir- 
g.rl  pursued,  biting  her  lip  as  she  spoke.  This 
was  hard  ploughing  -she  could  see  the  burning 
eyes-and  her  own  heart  was  tugging  at  the 
leash. 

Murray  rallied  himself  with  a  mighty  effort  "  I 
don't  think  so."  he  said,  trying  h.rd  to  speak  ration- 
ally. "But  he'd  be  a  splendid  man  for  them."  he 
went  resolutely  on,  spurring  himself  to  the  effort 


'■iW. 


356    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

"  if  he — if  he — that  is,  if  he  could  only  learn  to  love 
the  boys.     You  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"I  heard,"  and  Hilda's  words  ran  swiftly,  her 
bosom  heaving  against  her  will ;  "  I  heard — it's 
funny  how  things  leak  out — that  he  had  a  boy  of  his 
own.  And  that  he  doesn't  know  where  he  is — a 
kind  of  a  bUck  sheep,  I  fancy.  I  think  he  told  the 
Rector  something  about  it — and  that  he's  away 
somewhere  about  the  Coast,  in  the  States,  I  believe. 
But  that  he  didn't  know  himself." 

"  That's  all  too  common  out  here,"  Murray  an- 
swered as  interestedly  as  he  could.  "  I  vas  just  talk- 
ing about  a  chap  like  that  a  few  minutes  ago.  I 
fancy  Dr.  Seymour  is  rather  discouraged  in  his 
work,"  he  added  disjointedly. 

She  waited  for  him  to  go  on.  But  silence  fell 
again,  deep  and  dense. 

Suddenly  the  girl  took  up  the  vein  he  had  aban- 
doned. ••  Vou  won't  ever  be,  v/ill  you,  Mr.  McLean  ? 
I  mean,  you'll  never  give  up  the  work  you've  started 
— it's  so  noble,  and  so  necessary — and  you're  having 
such  success  in  it,  aren't  you  ?  You  will  never  give 
it  up,  will  you,  Mr.  McLean  ?  " 

She  paused,  trembling  now,  the  possible  import  of 
her  words  flooding  all  her  heart  with  fear — with 
heavenly  fear. 

H    moved  closer  to  her.    And  she  dimly  felt  that 


IVH^T  The  NEIV  MOON  BROUGHT  357 
he  had  been  coming  from  all  eternity.  His  face  was 
white,  his  lips  were  quivering,  his  eyes  aglow  with  a 
fire  she  had  never  seen  before-its  power  was  upon 
her  even  when  her  own  eyes  fell  before  it.  He  tried 
to  speak;  a  word  or  two  came  huskily—then  he 
seemed  compelled  to  stop,  yet  trembling  in  the  effort 
to  go  on. 

The  girl  started,  her  own  face  now  touched  with  pal- 
lor.    "  I'm  afraid  I  have— have  been  too  personal." 
she  faltered,  her  voice  betraying  her.     And  she  knew 
It.     For,  in  a  moment,  the  inspiration  suddenly  seiz- 
ing her:    "Oh.   look-look!"   she  cried  gaily,  an 
artificial  mirthfulness   in    the    voice,  "  look— see— 
there's  the  new  moon— there,  just  above  Old  Obser- 
vation!    Wish— hurry  up  and  wish-you  know  it 
never  fails,  if  you  wish  just  when  you  see  it  first. 
And  ril  wish  too."  she  stumbled  on,  quivering  now 
like  a  frightened  thing,  the  moon  and  its  omen  all 
forgotten  as  her  eyes  met  the  all-mastering  gaze  of 
his. 

He  came  closer— and  his  arms  were  outstretched— 
and  the  light  of  an  eternal  yearning  was  on  his  face. 

"  Did  you  wish  ?  •'  she  cried  in  swift  dismay,  shrink- 
ing back  and  trembling.     "  Don't— oh,  don't ! " 

But  he  heard  not.  Nearer  he  came— yet  with  the 
masterful  all  vanished  now  from  face  and  mien. 
Broken  and  pleading,  touched  with  the  power  of  a 


358    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENAY 

soul  bowed  in  homage  before  the  one  he  loved  and 
worshipped,  his  words  came  with  the  music  of  a  great 
cry  to  her  own  quivering  heart. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  began  hoarsely—"  that  is 
all  I  wish.  Oh,  my  love,  I  wish  for  you !  That's  all 
I  need,  to  make  me  strong,  and  true — and  forever 
happy;  you,  my  darling — your  love — your  life — 
your  self!  Oh,  my  love,— don't,  don't,''  as  she 
vainly  tried  to  save  herself,  her  own  insurgent  heart 
dumbly  clamouring  for  the  life,  the  rapture,  that  lay 
embosomed  in  that  holy  hour. 

Her  heart  conquered  all — and  Hilda  Ludlow  suf- 
fered the  sacied  tide  to  overflow  and  stifle  ^very  poor 
protesting  word,  every  feeble  movement  that  sought 
to  stay  its  course.  And  she  fluttered  in— far  in  ;  hi. 
arms  gathering  her  forever  to  himself — to  the  strong 
shelter  of  a  strong  man's  love. 

And  the  brightening  night  was  vocal  now  with 
those  voices  her  soul  had  never  heard  before ;  and 
all  life  found  its  meaning  and  its  crown  in  that  mo- 
ment of  overmastering  bliss. 


M* 


XXVI 
^   SECOND   SPRifsjG 

restless  and  ill  at  ease      Th        '  "  '""^"S^^^' 

obedience  to  which  he'h  T  "^  ^^^^  ''"P"'^^'  '" 

.oun.a3sistantrdlra:;rr""^"^^^^ 
as  the  days  went  by.     The  n,"  ''^'"'"'^^ 

the  church  seemed  f  k  "  °^  *^^'  ^^^"^  '" 

-ailed  the  Ir  1°        ^'  f'T  ^  ^"'  ^'^  ^^^^^  ^^ 
me  earnest  face  of  Murray  McLran    ,  j 

">e    part   he    himself    had    played    i„,: 

;p-,.he™.re  he  _.::;!::,- j^ 

^^."..x,  as  he  :nr:::j:d,r:rarr::  t 

be    maintained-_but  his   .on  ^^'^^ 

upon  ever,  mem  ^'^"^^'^nce   troubled    him 

.->orrs:r;::rh~'"^— - 

"'   '  -^••*v  "~'is  particular  night  at 
359 


'  r 


?3  ^ 


i 


360    The  SINGER  of  the  K007EKAY 

Dr,  Seymour's  service.  It  was  enough  to  depress 
any  man,  to  confront,  as  he  had  to  do,  an  audience 
so  decimated ;  and  composed,  as  the  scornful  layman 
had  predicted,  almost  exclusively  of  women  and 
children.  The  men,  evidently  enough,  had  turned 
tiieir  steps  to  the  Odd-Fellows'  hall  and  to  the  min- 
istrations of  the  younger  missioner. 

Wherefore,  depressed  and  weary,  almost  resolved 
to  make  a  speedy  end  of  the  entire  enterprise,  the 
Doctor  brought  his  meeting  to  an  early  close  and 
turned  his  desponding  steps  towards  the  lonely  pre- 
cincts of  his  room  at  the  hotel. 

He  himself  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  strange 
despondency,  the  lack  of  self-confidence,  that  took 
ever  deepening  possession  of  him  as  he  walked 
along  through  the  silent  night.  And  increasingly, 
as  he  thought  it  over,  did  his  misgivings  gather 
strength.  Failure,  benignest  of  blessings  to  many 
hearts,  was  beginning  to  bear  fruit  in  his.  And  by 
and  by,  his  spirit  more  and  more  broken  as  he 
pondered,  the  self-distrust  deepened  into  self-accusa- 
tion, the  folly  of  his  course  becoming  more  and 
more  apparent.  The  Reverend  Armitage  Seymour 
was  just  big  enough,  and  just  good  enough,  despite 
the  trammels  of  his  ecclesiastical  prejudice  and  train- 
ing, to  recognize  the  tragedy  of  fruitlessness  and 
failure  when  at  last  it  was  forced  upon  him.     And 


im<. 


^   SECOND   SPRING  36, 

up     NoftZ  "^  ""PP^"  ^"d  '"oked 

"p.     ^Nothing  anaemic  about  ///^/  o 

f«  33  he  could  judg.   „„,hl  ""^'"S'  ""'•" 

ing  mission.  ^'  "'  *"  "»■»  ''M- 

As  if  unconsciously-],,  hi„,„f  „ 

place  in   m^     •  1  '^"ifance.     He  found  a 

the  back  of  ,l,e  long  and  narrow  auditorium. 
oy  this  t  me  Murra,,  u„j  t. 

-~.Hc..de„':f,isjrj:f;:: 

"'  '■■""*"•  P--g  ho-^e  3on,«  thoughts  of  The 


S   B 


Hi 


362    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOrENAY 

more  pretentious  address  he  had  given  earlier  in  the 
evening — and  even  the  order-loving  Doctor  could  not 
but  admire  the  sanity  and  restraint  that  characterized 
every  word.  What  an  ally,  he  thought  regretfully 
this  man — with  his  dual  gift — would  have  been  to 
ine,  if  he  had  but  confined  himself  to  speech  like  this  ! 
If  he  had  only  left  the  standing  tip  and  the  penitent 
bench  alone ! 

But  even  as  the  older  man  stood  musing  thus,  the 
younger  launched  out  into  the  very  irregularity  that 
had  so  unhappily  sundered  them.  For,  suddenly 
pausing,  he  broke  out  now  into  an  impassioned  appeal 
for  all  who  would — how  sinful  soever  they  might 
be — to  take  their  stand  for  Christ.  Boldly,  with 
burning  earnestness,  he  bade  them  openly  ac- 
knowledge Him  and  come  out  once  and  forever  on 
His  side. 

"  I  know,"  he  concluded,  the  voice  thrilling  in  its 
intensity,  "  I  know  there  are  some  here  to-night  who 
have  wandcf^d  far—but  you  are  looking,  wistfully, 
yearningly,  for  the  lights  of  home  !  Oh,  come  now  ! 
Come  now,  and  find  rest  unto  your  weary  souls  !  "  as 
he  leaned  forv.ard  with  hands  outstretched,  the  pas- 
sionate eyes  pleading  as  eloquently  as  the  mobile 
hps.     "Who  will  come?     Who  will   rise  and  walk 

down  this  aisle  and  kneel" here  before  his  God  ? here, 

with  me,  together,  beside  another  sinful  man  as  un- 


f1| 


W%"BF 


^   SECOND   SPRING  ^, 

worthy  as  yourself?    Come    »nj 

k  ^  ,-  >-ome— and  we  ml  both  kne«l 

before  our  father's  throne  I " 

This  was  too  much  for  the  now  frowning  minister 
Undmg  ,n  the  aisle.     This  was  alien  to  ',  ZZ 
«p..on  of  the  digmtyof  worship-this !  the  exp 
d.=n.   of   professional    exhorters;    the    reso  r  e  o 
■gnorant  ranters;  the  show  feature  of  S.wJ    ■ 
and  Camp-meetinge,. !  Salvationists 

Too  much,  indeed,  was  this  for  the  Reverend  Armi- 

Z      ,       :■  '"'""  "'  ^""'■^''  Un.vcrsity  aTd 
Hai  orda,„ed  by  that  ancient  Kirk,  guardian  ^f  he 
aignity,  exponent  of  her  orH^ri,,      j 
H-  *         J  orderly  and  stately  wavs 

^  rxTdr"'"--"'"''''-"^^^^^^^^^^^ 

"ow  between  hl^r:;':::/-;-"'' '''■'- step 
fell  on  his  ear  ,  =■     ,  ^'■'''  "''="  »  ^°i« 

-rdup^:::\rror:r:,r '"■--- 

overwhelming  joy  °    '^     "'  '  ""^"'"^  "^-h-  - 


364    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

outgoing  form  of  his  son,  in  anger  turning  his  back 
on  his  father's  house;  again  he  groped  amid  the 
darkness  that  could  be  felt;  again  he  wandered  in 
that  deserted  room,  dumbly  surveying  its  relics  of  a 
joy  forever  dead ;  again  he  heard  the  low  wail  from  a 
mother's  anguished  lips— and  then,  like  inky  clouds 
that  would  not  lift,  there  flowed  about  him  the  memory 
of  the  long  bitter  years,  steeped  in  silcntness,  through 
which  hope  had  slowly  languished  to  its  end. 

He  turned— like  one  who  had  heard  the  voice  of 
God.  He  gazed — like  one  who  was  searching  the 
secrets  of  eternity. 

For  he  saw  a  form,  still  strong  and  straight  despite 
the  wastery  of  the  years,  that  was  now  slowly  moving 
outward  to  the  aisle.  The  head  was  bowed— but  he 
would  have  known  it  among  a  thousand.  That 
glossy  hair,  slightly  curhng  still— had  he  not  stroked 
and    fondled    it    a  thousand  times  I     Those  eyes, 

averted  and  cast  down  though  they  were had  they 

not  looked  love  to  his  and  read  their  answer  in  his 
oivn,  with  a  rapture  that  had  tortured  him  in  many  a 
fruitless  dream  !  Those  bronzed  and  weatiier-beaten 
cheeks— were  they  not  his  mother's  still— and  had 
they  not  been  pressed  to  his  own  in  loving  impact 
that  had  filled  his  heart  with  a  joy  the  y-ars  were 
powerless  to  dim ! 

He  waited,  gazing,  breathless  as  the  pillar  beside 


-<   SECOND  SPRING  ^^ 

which  he  stood.     Those  who  stood  beside  hin,  I„„l,  ^ 
'"  -•'"   ■"-  they  felt,  i„  di„,  .^^Z  ^ 
and  the  pathos  of  it  aU.     The  b.„  l^her  Z 

of  a  soul-all  the.e  touched  every  heart  w,th  rever 
stood  and  wondered. 

The  penitent  had  reached  the  front  by  this  time 
and  was  ,„ee,h.g  now  beside  the  .issio^n  r^Iie' 

tney  knelt,  those  two-and  Murray's  prayer  was  so 
iowthat  only  tho.e  close  to  him  could  hear 

fell  h"u  ■!  r"'™'""^  ""■"'■='"  "-""^  "is  wa.,  for  all 
e«  back  before  him,  down  ,h.  aisle  to  whe"  he 
"uld  see  the  kneeling  pair.    Slowly  at  fi„t  si. 

«.!:«. rr'-  ^" "'"-«'. -i^hands 

to  God     Thl"   Ti         °"'  "'"^^""S  '°  -■"'  -^ 
the  h    ,.      u       ^^'"«  ^'^""  attested  the  sobs  that 

that  fell  hke  ra,n  told  the  story  of  the  bitter  years 
that  were  now  past  j,,d  gone 

"'::^'n:hedZ'r"?"^^'''''^''"-"''-hen 

"'Shed,  he  lingered  where  he  kneJt 


m 


ll! 


366    The  SINGER  of  The  K007ENA\ 

"Leonard  I "  came  a  broken  \  ice,  the  face  of  t 
older  man  now  turned  in  ineffable  longing  on  t 
prodigal  beside  him. 

The  other  started.  Still  kneeling,  he  turn.-d  abc 
and  looked  into  his  father's  face !  Then,  with  a  mi 
fled  cry  that  spoke  the  very  language  of  his  soul, 
flung  himseli  with  outstretched  arms  upon  the  quiv< 
ing  form — and  the  long  lonely  years  found  th( 
recompense  in  the  rapture  of  tiiat  embrace  of  love. 

Dense  silence  reigned ;  almost  every  head  in  tl 
hall  wai  bowed.  "  Oh,  Leonard,  my  son  -my  so 
Leonard;  oh,  Leonard,  my  sou,  my  on!"  was  i 
that  those  nearest  could  hear  as  the  words  came 
last  from  the  penitent  who  had  found  his  chil 
who  had  himself  been  found  of  his  Father  and  1: 
God. 

Murray  was  standing  now,  gazing,  the  purport  c 
it  all  borne  ir  upon  him  like  a  tide — he  needed  r 
words  to  interpret  the  matchless  story. 

"  You  pray,"  he  said  softly  to  the  minister,  wl 
was  still  bowed  before  him. 

Dr.  Seymour  seemed  to  hesitate  or  a  momen 
And  then,  without  rising,  almost  without  movini 
iiis  trembling  voice  began : 

"Oh,  Lord,  wilt  Thou  take  me  back  now— The 
seest  how  a  poor  sinful  father  takes  back  his  cw 
son — and  Thou  wilt  not  do  less?  Thyself.     Oh,  Go< 


^   SECOND  SPRING  ^ 

can  it  be — can  it  h»-     fu  »  • , 

h/™  "t^Lp  "7^'  ""■;  "-"^  ^'^"*"«  "-.  "'Ckoned 

■•  WeVe  decided  to  take  a  hymn  instead  "  M 
■"•■mated  a  .o^ent  later  to  the  a.     "e'    a""' 

And  there  may  still  be  found   in  ,h.  .^ 
--.e.  some  anud  .„e  s„o„s  of  „«  X\°''""'y 
°"  the  golden  slope  of  the  P.!x     .1  "'  '""" 

'"  "ai-  to  describe  th,         ?       •  ""^^  """^ «"« 
With  Which  the  rrC^^^^^^ 

-"i  =tood  beside  his   ft:;,    "nT     ""^ '"^■- 
g>°'yn«  in  his  tear,  I,   ,       ^^"''  ""■'y  Hawkins, 

^■■^  abo„t ,:; ;  ra^rr  ''=^"''  "-^  """>• 

•"=  .-.ghtr  strai,,   ,ro  ,  sir  "•    '""'   "'«'" 
t°'leB  of  the   »o„U  '^        "'  ""■°"^'  '"* 

-ched  here  and  there  T,  Is       ''"^      '  °'""'^' 
™-^-s  voice.     EvervL"         ™-r'™""«"' 

■         ■-■  "^  ""'J  high,  every 


^  J'.^ 


I! 


368    The  SINGER  of  The  KOOTENAY 

soul  aflame  with  love,  every  face  beautiful  with  hope 
— and  the  very  mountains  that  stood  without  seemed 
to  fling  back  in  gladness  what  the  strong  men  flung 
forth  in  joy : 

••  And  the  angels  echoed  around  the  throne 
Rejoice  I  for  the  Lord  brings  back  His  own." 


THE  END 


••."« 


